


All His History

by writteninhaste



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, noble!d'artagnan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D`Artagnan has never known of his noble birth, only even thought himself a farmers son and a Musketeer. Now his Uncle is dead, without legitimate offspring to claim the title, land and fortune. D`Artagnan is suddenly called to court and made the new Comte de Castlemore, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams and completely out of his depths.</p><p>Cue Athos stepping in to show him how its done, with Athos and Porthos along for the ride.</p><p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme. Now polished and proof-read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elenduen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Elenduen).



> Written for [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?view=2484669&posted=1#cmt2484669) on the dreamwidth BBC Musketeers Kink Meme.

Charles d’Artagnan had been born the son of a gentleman farmer. Though by no means rich enough to claim a title or status, Alexandre d’Artangnan was a prosperous man with a good income. His farm and its produce were enough to ensure a comfortable home for his wife and child and his manners and generous spirit earned him the respect and good-feeling of his neighbours. In Lupiac, with no landed families or noble lords to claim the situation, the d’Artagnans enjoyed the position of being the first family in the parish. D’Artagnan’s wife, it was rumoured, had once been the daughter of the Comte de Castelmore, thrown off by her father when she scandalously eloped with the proud and intelligent young yeoman who had petitioned her father for the funds and tools to repair the bridge across the Douze. If there was any truth to the rumour, it had never been proven in Lupiac. Certainly Francoise d’Artangan was uncommonly beautiful, refined and elegant, with soft-spoken words and a dainty step, but a daughter of the nobility? What noblewoman threw away her future for the life of a farm-wife? No, in Lupiac, common wisdom held that Francoise must have been the daughter of a wealthy merchant-trader: rich enough to groom his daughter for a marriage above her station but perhaps unfortunate enough to lose his business before he could marry her off. A wealthy farmer was a respectable match for such a girl and it would explain the troubles Francoise had first experienced upon her marriage. Truly, the women of the village had begun to despair for it seemed she did not know how to mend or cook or clean, though her needlework for the church altar-cloth was admitted to be beyond compare.

Still, not even in the small parish of Lupiac could the arrival of a bride of unclear parentage sustain the gossips forever and quickly enough, talk moved to other matters and Madame d’Artagnan became just another farmer’s wife: pretty and kind but otherwise unremarkable. Only two points of note remained in the minds of those in the villiage with a head for puzzles and a love of intrigue. The first was that shortly after his marriage Monsieur d’Artagnan secured the funds not only to purchase two horses for his farm but also to maintain them. The second, and far more interesting detail, was the sword which rested atop the mantelpiece in its leather sheath. A gentleman’s weapon, the hilt was finely wrought and showed the signs of care and age. Those who saw the sword assumed it to be an heirloom from Madame’s side. Had a brother perhaps, or an uncle, served his majesty in the field? It was well known that d’Artagnan himself had been a soldier before injury brought him home and even now he could be seen performing his old drills in the early light before the sun brought in the dawn and the farm came to life. But Madame never mentioned a relative who had fought for the king, and for those with a mind to ponder, the mystery remained.

oOo

When d’Artagnan thought back to his life in Gascony, he determined that his earliest memory was of his mother instructing him in his letters. Her writing had been elegant, and had instructed his own; it was from his mother, that d’Artagnan had learnt to read more than just the bible and his prayers. In a corner of the parlour, his mother had kept a small collection of treasure: three books, their pages delicate and thin, the cloth of their bindings beginning to wear thin with age. She would read to him from these in the evenings, once the mending had been finished and his father had returned from the fields. Francoise and her husband would sit before their hearth, their only child at their feet, and Francoise would read Charles stories of gods and centaurs, of heroes and poets. Charles would grow up hearing of Icarus and his ill-fated flight and he would lay on his back in the yard and wonder what it would feel like to fly so high. It was his mother who was largely in charge of his education and Charles had never thought  it might be strange that a farmer’s wife knew Spanish and German, could do her sums and had been taught to sing. A young Charles d’Artangan thought all parents were like his. He knew his father could read and write, for he had seen him keep ledgers for the farm and had been permitted to sit on his father’s lap to watch the progress - provided he was still and quiet and did not jog the page. For a child barely out of infancy it had been a dull exercise and d’Artagnan had quickly wriggled to the floor and set about playing soldiers with the farm’s tolerant battle-axe of a tabby. With a torn ear and a mean stare, the cat hardly endeared itself to strangers; but with the patience of a saint it would allow its little master to lay siege to its flanks and play the role of defeated castle with great equanimity. A young d’Artagnan thought this a great game and could most days be found lying flat on the ground as he launched a collected assortment of twigs, nuts and seeds at the tawny flank until at last, out of ammunition, he would declare France’s victory and reward the beleaguered enemy with a pilfered saucer of milk.

So it was, that d’Artagnan, born the son of a farmer, was educated like a gentleman and trained to fight like one. His father, proud of his service and his skill, instructed his son to shoot and to fence. His mother spoke to him of the medieval ideals of chivalry and read him essays on the pursuit of honour and the courage of a knight. When d’Artagnan was twelve his mother died and the sword that had rested on the mantel since he was born was transferred to its place at his side. His father’s eyes had been wet with grief when he had pressed the hilt into d’Artagnan’s hand and in his own misery had almost missed his father’s words: “from heir to heir, down through the generations. This sword is yours now, Charles, and in turn it will be your son’s, care for it well”. That sword became d’Artagnan’s reason for breathing. For the next two years he took it to bed with him each night, hand cupped beneath the guard over the sheath, the leather warm by morning with the heat of his skin.

This practice became rather more intermittent during d’Artagnan’s fourteenth summer when he learned that pretty milkmaids might be happy to invite a good-looking farm boy to lay in the hay, but were rather less inclined to have his sword accompany them as well. Faced with temptation, d’Artagnan decided that it would not be _too_ neglectful if he occasionally set the sword aside. After all, his father _had_ told him it was rude to refuse a lady.

* * *

The cool edge of autumn was starting to steal across the city. Though the days were warm, the nights had become increasingly brisk and d’Artagnan took a deliberate step closer to Porthos and his heat as they meandered their way through the city. Porthos huffed a laugh and cuffed him affectionately across the back of the head. D’Artagnan turned wounded eyes in his friend’s direction but failed to keep a straight face. A doorway opened ahead of them, light and sound pouring in a warm, yellow beam from the entryway. A drunk stumbled out into the street, assisted by the prostitute who would no doubt be relieving him on his cloak and his purse in short order. D’Artagnan dodged out of their way and stepped into the tavern, Porthos a step behind him. Aramis was already seated at a table, flirting with the barmaid, hat on his knee. D’Artagnan took a strategic detour to the bar, meaning to procure a drink whilst Aramis concluded his seduction; Porthos had no such compunctions. With a wink and the toss of a coin in d’Artagnan’s direction, Porthos slid easily into the seat across from Aramis and smiled winningly. The barmaid, less inclinded to continue her flirtation with an audience, smiled and departed, winding her way between the tables. D’Artagnan saw Aramis scowl companionably at Porthos, who shrugged and laughed before twisting in his seat. Catching d’Artagnan’s eye, he raised two fingers in salute and gestured to Aramis. With a snort, d’Artagnan took this to mean he was to get a drink for Aramis as well. The barman, at least, served quickly, passing half a carafe of wine and three glasses into d’Artagnan’s hands, together with a warning against starting any trouble. A group of red guards were drinking raucously in a corner. D’Artagnan nodded his understanding and made his way back to his companions, sensing the door to the tavern open again just as he set his load down on the table. From the way Aramis raised a hand in greeting, d’Artagnan assumed Athos had joined them.

His assumption was proven correct as the man in question took the last seat at the table, dropping his hat onto the wood before him with a pale air of exhaustion. Porthos pushed a cup of wine in his direction and then did the same for d’Artagnan, who muttered his thanks before shifting his chair slightly closer to Athos. The manoeuvre placed him at an angle to the room, leaving his back less exposed, as he shifted into the shadow of a pillar. Aramis frowned slightly but made no comment. It wasn’t that d’Artagnan doubted his friends’ ability to watch his back, but over the course of the past days, d’Artagnan had felt uncomfortably as though someone had been watching him and the paranoia was making him uncomfortable.

Athos was already mostly finished with his glass before d’Artagnan raised his to his lips. Porthos was relating some anecdote or other and Aramis was crowing in all the right placed. Even Athos’s lips were twitching in amusement. D’Artagnan took a gulp of the wine, nose twitching slightly as the taste suggested that it might have been watered. As he swallowed, he felt the now-familiar itching at the back of his skull. Instinct demanded he turn around, to confront whoever it was behind him, but experience had taught him he would find no one there and Aramis’ teasing would be merciless if it looked as though he were jumping out of his skin at shadows.

As Porthos wound down his tale, accepting the good-natured ribbing from Aramis and signalling for another carafe of wine, d’Artagnan risked a glance over his shoulder. The tavern crowd looked to be unchanged from when he took his seat, and he could see no one paying him any undue attention. As he turned back around to taken another drink, he noticed the others watching him strangely.

“What?”

Aramis opened his mouth to answer, but the arrival of more wine interrupted him. Athos took the opening to cut across him, leaning forward to be heard over the rising din.

“Treville was kind enough to apprise me of our orders for tomorrow.” He said. “We are to ride east to Reims and join the tax caravan coming from the city. There has been sickness amongst the city guard and they cannot spare a full complement of men to make the journey. The king has ordered that Musketeers be sent to ensure the safety of the caravan. The collector and his men have delayed their departure until our arrival. We should make Reims by Friday.”

“And Paris after?” D’Artangan asked.

Aramis chuckled and topped up his glass. “Allow at least a week for the journey. And no gratitude for our services either.”

“Since when are people grateful to see us?” Porthos wondered, earning the amusemed huff he had been aiming for.

“Depart after breakfast?” D’Artagnan confirmed, again twisting to look over his shoulder before he had consciously made the decision to do so.

“Yes.” Athos replied, just as Aramis burst out: “What is wrong with you?”

Startled, d’Artagnan jerked forward, the wine in his cup executing a neat parabola over the rim. Porthos tutted at the mess and wrapped his hand around his own glass to avoid the spill.

“Nothing.”

“Stop lying.” The cool command in Athos’ voice slid down d’Artagnan’s spine and, even after all this months, still had the maddening ability to make him want to jerk to his feet in protest, whilst simultaneously snapping the smartest salute ever seen in the regiment.

“I’m not lying.” The rumble of disapproval from Porthos and the way Aramis’ brows started to draw together, had d’Artagnan raising his hands in defense. “Honest.”

Aramis’ boot connected solidly with his shin. D’Artagnan yelped. “You’ve been twitchy and out of sorts for the last two days.” He said firmly. “You were so busy looking over your shoulder this morning that you nearly walked into a wall.”

“He did walk into a wall when he was with me.” Porthos commented. “Then he nearly got run over by a cart and then he nearly knocked a lady down as we were crossing the street.”

D’Artagnan blushed at the recollection and hastily hid his face in his wine. They were all still staring at him when he resurfaced. He sighed.

“It’s nothing.” He assured them. “I’m sure I'm imaging things.”

“Imagining what things, exactly?” Athos inquired, mildly.

D’Artagnan took a breath and then rushed the words out all at once. _“Ithinksomeonemaybefollowingme”_

There was a pause whilst his friends took a moment to work out what had been said and then three sets of hands reached to smack him on the back of the head. Aramis could not reach from his position and so settled for slapping his palm to d’Artagnan’s forehead, instead. Annoyed and a little sore, d’Artagnan rubbed the abused spot balefully whilst he glared around the table.

“What was that for?”

“What was that for?” Porthos demanded incredulously. “After everything that’s happened in the last few months, and you didn’t think to tell us that someone’s been following you?”

“I’m not sure that they have.” D’Artagnan protested. “Maybe I’m imagining things.”

“Or maybe you’re not.” Athos countered. “At any rate, we will all keep an eye out in the coming weeks. A follower will be easy to spot on the road to Reims, and it would be foolish to target a caravan if you are only after one man.”

“I want it noted that I still don’t think anyone is following me.” D’Artagnan muttered but he couldn’t say it with full honesty. He was still on edge. Scowling he tipped back more of the wine. Maybe he could take a leaf out of Athos’ book – surely being drunk would help dampen the paranoia?

oOo

The road to Reims was long and wet. The rain which had drawn in as the Musketeers set out from Paris had accompanied them the entire way. Fortunately, Aramis’ dire predictions of it taking a week to return to Paris had proved unfounded. Though the caravan had moved slowly, laden with gold and guards and horses, they had made reasonable progress. The tax collector himself was drunk for most of the trip, which was fortunate as Athos himself had fallen to a bout of melancholy as they left the city and on several nights had drunk more than was advisable when on the road. These spells had been less frequent since Milady’s flight, but still they crept upon him at the oddest moments and his friends had little choice but to fall back on old habits and help him back to his rooms once he was finished drowning his sorrows. In Paris, it was Porthos who most often took on the duty of helping Athos to his lodgings, being the one most capable of bodily hauling Athos up the stairs if necessary. But here, on the open road, where discretion required his friends to keep Athos still and quiet, less his state be noticed by the city guards, it was d’Artagnan who kept him the most company. Aramis and Porthos played distraction, dealing cards and throwing dice with the guards – trading salacious stories and cheerfully irreverent jokes. D’Artagnan stayed in the shadows, waiting for the moment when Athos would surrender the bottle and allow himself to be poured into bed. In the morning he would refuse to speak a word of what had passed the night before and d’Artagnan grew accustomed to handing cuts of cold meat and cheese across while on horseback, a silent recrimination that Athos had not been well enough to join them for breakfast.

By the time they reach Paris the entire company was out of sorts, humour strained from the forced cheer with the caravan guards and the exhaustion that came from little sleep and no small amount of concern. D’Artagnan was damp and ill-humoured as he dismounted in the garrison courtyard. His horse stamped and snorted, tail flicking in irritation as d’Artagnan lifted his bags down from the saddle, handing the reins to Jacques as he came to collect them. Athos was already climbing the stairs to report to Treville and Aramis was exchanging low words with Porthos. He was idly considering whether he might be able to steal a pot of hot water from the kitchens to wash in, when Treville appeared at the balustrade.

“D’Artagnan.” He crooked to fingers as he called, the summons clear. Surprised, d’Artagnan glanced at the others as he laid his packs by the table. Porthos and Aramis accompanied him up the stairs, despite the fact that they hadn’t been called, following d’Artagnan into Treville’s office as if it were only natural that they be present as well.

Treville raised an eyebrow at the audacity but didn’t reprimand them. “Close the door.” He said and beckoned d’Artagnan closer.

It was then that d’Artagnan noticed the stranger. His clothes were rich velvet and fine linen. D’Artagnan had lived under Constance’s roof long enough to gauge the cost of the materials and the skill of the embroidery. The man’s shoes alone would have cost him a month and a half’s wages. The man turned to him and d’Artagnan keenly felt his scrutiny. He became aware that his clothes were still damp enough to drip occasionally and a wet patch was spreading across the wooden floor by his feet. There was mud reaching from him to the door and from the way his skin was starting to itch, he was willing to bet there was more starting to dry on his cheek.

The stranger sniffed, and brought his heels together with a neat _snick_. “You are Charles Ogier d’Artagnan? Son of Alexandre d’Artagnan and his wife, Francoise de Montesquiou, lately of Lupiac in Gascony?”

“I am.” At the mention of his mother, Athos, who until that moment had been stood silently by Treville’s desk, made an abortive motion as though he might intervene, before settling once more into stillness. D’Artagnan spared him a glance but most of his attention was fixed on the man in front of him. “Forgive me Monsieur, you have me at a disadvantage. Were you acquainted with my father?”

The man’s lip curled, as if d’Artagnan had enquired after his association with whores and beggars. “I had no acquaintance with your father.” He said at last, “I am Audet, steward to the late Comte de Castelmore. My family has served that house for fifteen generations.” The last was said with a note of considerable pride and again it was Athos, shifting his weight, which drew d’Artagnan’s attention. It occurred to him that as le Comte de la Fère, Athos may well have once had an acquaintance with de Castelmore. He had opened his mouth to ask Athos if he knew what was going on, when Audet spoke again. “Records from the parish of Lupiac show that your mother bore three children into this world. The first, a boy, was stillborn and never named. The second was a girl, Catherine, who died shortly before her third birthday. This was followed by a period of 10 years in which there was no child. And then you were born.” D’Artagnan blinked at him and nodded. “10 years is a long time for a man to produce no offspring. There can be no doubt that you are your father’s issue?”

It took a moment for d’Artagnan to understand Audet’s meaning but when he did he felt fire in his gut. His sword cleared the sheath just as Athos leapt forward and grabbed his arm, halting the upward swing. Over the pounding in his ears, d’Artagnan could distantly hear Treville.

“Sir, you go too far.”

Porthos and Aramis were lending their voices to the din but Athos said nothing. He was having to fight harder than expected to force d’Artagnan’s hand down to his side. It was not until Treville stepped bodily between d’Artagnan and Audet that the younger man lowered his weapon – unwilling to risk striking his Captain.

“I want satisfaction.” He hissed at Athos, sword lowered but still naked at his side. Athos perfectly understood the sentiment but he had a suspicion as to what had brought Audent to the garrison and drawing blood here would do nobody any good.

He wrapped a hand around the top of d’Artagnan’s shoulder, bring his mouth close to d’Artagnan’s ear. “A steward against a soldier?” He demanded, low-voiced, “what kind of a fight is that? What honour is there in defeating such an unmatched opponent?”

Athos saw a muscle in d’Artagnan’s cheek twitch as he clench his teeth. “You heard what he said. The insult to my mother –”

“Proves he is not a gentleman.” Athos insisted. “Let it go. You will gain nothing from this.”

For a moment he thought d’Artagnan might refuse, might thrash Audet in recompense anyway, but at last, with a jerky nod, d’Artagnan put up his sword.

Audet, for his part, had seemed to realise the foolishness of insulting a trained soldier in his own barracks and had taken advantage of Treville’s interference to place himself firmly out of d’Artagnan’s reach.

D’Artagnan stepped towards Audet, but when Athos’ hand tightened on his wrist, made no attempt to move further. “I am the son of Alexandre d’Artagnan and the son of his wife. If I ever, _ever_ , hear you suggest otherwise again, I will have satisfaction from you in blood. For now, I will settle for your apology.”

Audet looked as though he had been asked to lick d’Artagnan’s boots, but he forced out an apology all the same. He glanced at Treville as though debating the wisdom of prolonging his visit and then, with a distinct lack of grace, offered a stiff bow in d’Artagnan’s direction before beating a hasty retreat.

The tension in the room dropped with Audet’s departure, but it was clear that d’Artagnan was still aggrieved at the insult and spoiling for a fight. Treville dismissed him, with Aramis and Porthos for company, but Athos remained. Sighing, Treville sat down heavily behind his desk, one hand coming up to massage his left shoulder. The break had fully healed since his fight with LeBarge, but he would feel the effects for the rest of his days, and the damp was no doubt making the ache worse.

“So le Comte de Castelmore is dead.” Treville said at last, motioning for Athos to take a seat.

“So it would seem.”

“Did you know?” Trevilled asked, “That d’Artagnan’s mother was of the de Montesquiou line?”

Athos shook his head. “He never spoke of her. And whilst it was clear the boy had been educated, _this_ was a little beyond my imaginings.”

Treville huffed in agreement. “This will complicate things. Audet is no doubt already on his way to the palace to report his findings. It will take some time for the information to work its way up the ranks, but D’Artagnan can expect his summons within a day. The King won’t risk further unrest in Gascony. He wants his taxes collected; d’Artagnan will be sent south without delay.”

Athos dragged a hand down his face. “He was never raised for this. He’ll either be dead within a month or be so busy trying not to lose his head that he loses control of the land. The region is already teetering on the edge of rebellion.”

“Which is why you’re going with him.” Treville said. “Officially I’ll send you as an escort. Unofficially, keep d’Artagnan alive and keep the peace. War is brewing with Spain; we can’t afford a war in the South, as well.”

Athos nodded and levered himself to his feet, waiting for Treville’s dismissal before making his way back down to the courtyard. He needed to find d’Artagnan and he needed a drink. Not necessarily in that order.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Athos succeeded in finding d’Artagnan, the boy had drunk himself into a sullen stupor. Aramis was with him, his own glass untouched, watching as d’Artagnan forewent all propriety to drink straight from the bottle. Athos recognised the recipe for this condition well: 1 part anger, 2 parts shame, add a generous helping of guilt and not a small amount of grief,  _et voila_ \- one thoroughly drunk musketeer.

Athos knew that this was no time for revelations; knew also that even if he took the bottle away at that moment, d’Artagnan was too far gone to dry out before sunrise. He let d’Artagnan keep the wine and by the time Porthos joined them, d’Artagnan was slumped in quiet misery against Aramis’ side. He still had one hand morosely wrapped around the neck of the bottle, but he’d stopped trying to raise it to his lips. Aramis had a hand curled companionably against the back of d’Artagnan’s head, the way one might with a distressed child. As a group they were silent, trading conversation through glances and gestures, rather than actual words. No one mentioned Audet; no one asked d’Artagnan to speak of the mother he had buried when still a child, of the father he had buried when he was barely a man. Athos knew, intellectually, that there were boys younger than d’Artagnan serving in the wars, that though they called him _whelp_ and _boy_ , he had earned the right to call himself a man. Still, he seemed so young, at times.

It took him by surprise when d’Artagnan pushed the bottle in his direction and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. By then, the room had emptied of all but the most hardened drinkers and outside dawn was beginning to claw its way over the horizon. D’Artagnan swayed once, one hand reaching out to steady himself, the other on his swordhilt; it was Porthos who lent his bulk to steady him. D’Artagnan smiled his thanks - though the attempt was so far removed from his usual efforts that it took Athos a moment to realise what he was seeing. He caught Aramis’ eye and stood as well, settling his hat on his head as Porthos hauled d’Artagnan over the collection of stools and table legs which obstructed their path to the doorway.

D’Artagnan made it a hundred yards from the door before vomiting all over the street. Aramis’ nose wrinkled in distaste but he dutifully held his friend upright as he emptied his stomach, ignoring the splatters of undigested wine and bile than inevitably littered his boots. D’Artagnan eventually sagged, exhausted and spent. If there were tears of fatigue collecting at the corner of his eyes, his friends were gracious enough to make no comment.

They could hardly return d’Artagnan to his rooms at the garrison in his current condition, but it would take too long to reach any of their lodgings at the pace d’Artagnan was walking. The earliest markets were just beginning to come to life and Aramis led them to a bench tucked into the shadow of a church just off the Rue de Capri. Athos handed him a handful of coin and Porthos added his own. Aramis left them to procure food and drink; d’Artagnan fell to dozing, head tipped back against the cool stone of the wall behind him.

When Aramis returned he had water for all of them, cups charmed from a stall-holder at the market, and arms curled around an offering of bread, apples and a few strips of salted pork. The pork went to d’Artagnan, who was instructed to suck on it first before chewing. The rest of the food was distributed evenly and Porthos rolled an apple up his sleeve and off his shoulder before pressing it into Athos’ hand. The apples were the last of the season, their skins starting to wrinkle and brown, but their juice still tart and fresh. Athos muttered his thanks as he bit into it.

As he ate, some colour returned to d’Artagnan’s cheeks and with it a fresh bout of shame. He could look none of them in the eye, though he ate according to Aramis’ instructions and drank the water passed to him without protest. D’Artagnan could not truly think they would cast him aside for this display – true, he had never been quite this drunk before but he had seen Athos in worse condition, and even Porthos and Aramis have been known to drink too long and too heavily on occasion. But d’Artagnan was still relatively new amongst them, even newer to his commission and his behaviour clearly weighed heavily upon him. Porthos looked like he might try to offer some sort of joke or comfort but at the small shake of Aramis’ head subsided. They would all pretend as if this had never happened. If d’Artagnan attempted to apologise then they would offer assurances of friendship, but until then better to feign ignorance of any misbehaviour. They took breakfast together often enough, this was not so unusual. It was simply the location of today’s meal which was altered.

By the time the church bells struck the hour, d’Artagnan looked himself again (albeit slightly green around the edges). He accepted Porthos’ hand, clasped around his elbow, and let the other man drag him to his feet. Aramis laid a hand upon his shoulder before dusting his hands of the last of the apple pips and gathering their cups together.

“I must return these to Madame.” He said. “I will meet you at the garrison.”

Athos surmised from this that Madame must be quite pretty and the smirk Porthos sent in Aramis’ direction suggested he had guessed the same. D’Artagnan groaned and flapped a hand in thanks, head ducked against the glare of the morning sun. Aramis grinned and turned on his heel, whistling a tune which Athos immediately identified as being a childhood rhyme meant to teach against the vices of excess. D’Artagnan threw a rude gesture at his retreating back.

oOo

Men were practicing in the yard when the three made their way through the archway. Treville was watching from the balustrade, and Serge was ladling out a thick porridge to the handful of musketeers gathered at the benches. At their entrance, Treville turned his head towards them, an eyebrow raised in question. Athos shook his head slightly, fighting a wince when Treville frowned at him. There had been no opportunity to instruct d’Artagnan as to his new circumstances last night and Athos was loathe to do it here, with so many eyes upon them.

D’Artagnan had a bed in the barracks, of course, but there was no privacy, and at this time of day the men returning from the night patrols would be trickling in, looking for sleep and oblivion. Athos sighed and shook his head again, knowing Treville would see the gesture. The frown on the Captain’s face deepened, but he nodded and returned to his office, accepting Athos’ judgement.

Porthos and d’Artagnan had already squared off against each other, when Athos returned his attention to them, the former leading the latter through a basic combat drill. D’Artagnan had mastered this particular sequence within weeks of joining the regiment, but its simplicity and old familiarity, meant that he could still maintain the appearance of readiness, even as his brain sloshed between his ears. Porthos allowed him to land a particularly sloppy blow, barely strong enough to knock over a kitten, and d’Artagnan grimaced at the performance. Porthos laughed and tapped his own jaw in good-humoured mockery. D’Artagnan took a swing all the same, knowing he would never beat Porthos, but using his slighter build to try and duck under his friend's defences all the same. Porthos let him get within a hair’s breadth of victory before sweeping d’Artagnan’s legs from beneath him and dumping him unceremoniously into the dirt.

With a huff, d’Artagnan slumped back onto the ground, clapping both hands to his face when the sound of Aramis’ laughter drifted in from the archway. The laughter was cut abruptly short as hooves clattered over the stones and into the yard. D’Artagnan scrambled up and out of the way as a man wearing the royal livery reigned in his horse on the spot where moment ago d’Artagnan had been lying.

Upon seeing the man’s uniform, Athos had turned to call for the captain. But Treville was already on the stairs, coming down to meet them. The man dismounted and made his leg to Treville, handing him a letter stamped with the King’s own seal.

Treville broke the wax but his face said he already knew what new the letter would contain and Athos felt his heart grow heavy.

“d’Artagnan,” Treville said at last, “your presence is required at the palace. The King wishes to speak with you.”

* * *

The court was nearly vibrating with curiosity. Courtiers in all their finery were crammed, like fish in a barrel, into the throne room. D’Artagnan swallowed a cough as a wave of perfume and spiced cosmetics threatened to overpower him. His stomach rolled unpleasantly but he grit his teeth against the nausea. Aramis and Porthos had been forbidden from accompanying him, but a quiet word from Treville, in the ear of the liveried servant, had seen Athos secure permission to join d’Artagnan for his trip to the palace. D’Artagnan was unspeakably grateful. His mind could not help falling back to the last time any of the musketeers had received a royal summons – though then it had been Red Guards and not a footman who had acted as the escort. He could only assume that whatever charges he now faced, they were not so grievous as to merit the Cardinal’s influence. The footman who had led them to the palace now stepped discretely to the side, to whisper in the ear of one of the attendants. The man nodded once, gaze sweeping quickly over Athos and d’Artagnan before he raised his staff and brought it down with two sharp cracks against the stone floor.

“Olivier d’Athos, le Comte de la Fère and Charles d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers.”

The crowd parted and d’Artagnan felt Athos propel him forward until they were stood before their monarchs. The King looked like he was enjoying a good joke, whilst the Queen was as serene as ever. In the months since d’Artagnan had last been in her presence, her pregnancy had become obvious. She had donned the wide fitting gowns of the expectant mother and was rarely seen in public these days. As d’Artagnan bowed he saw the queen press a hand to the underside of her belly.

The Cardinal was stood sourly to the right of the King’s throne. Beside him a page boy held a heavy gold-leafed tome embossed with the royal insignia. The boy was staring fixedly ahead with the sort of detached determination that came from long practice; the Cardinal was staring only at Athos.

“Well,” the King said, hands clasped in obvious merriment, “this is certainly not something We could have anticipated. Le Comte de la Fère, serving in Our regiment, and now le Comte de Castelmore will join him. How marvellous.”

D’Artagnan was convinced he had never felt more ignorant then he did right now. Who was le Comte de Castelmore? And why in God’s good name had the King felt it necessary to call d’Artagnan to the palace?

A sudden thought chilled d’Artagnan’s skin. What if he had inadvertently offended de Castelmore? He could remember no man he had insulted recently but he was not always as careful as prudence might dictate. He had not dallied with the man’s mistress surely? Since breaking with Constance he had sought company only rarely and even then only because Aramis had insisted. None of the women Aramis had introduced him to had the look of a rich man’s mistress. Their rooms were cramped, their clothes frayed and mended. They had been welcoming enough – happy to take d’Artagnan’s money and accept his company – but they had sent him on his way again in short order. These were not women who could afford to sit idly by; they paid their own way.

D’Artagnan realised he was sweating. Mere moments must have passed but it felt like minutes. Athos, seeming to recognise d’Artagnan’s distress, bowed again, shallower with time and with a tip of his head in the queen’s direction.

“It is an honour to serve in Your Majesty’s regiment,” he said, taking half a step forward so that he was angled slightly in front of d’Artagnan. “No man could ask for a greater privilege than to be a Musketeer.”

Louis looked delighted at the praise and grinned widely at his queen. Anne, for her part, returned the smile, before leaning forward to speak to Athos directly. “I have not forgotten the faces of those men who saved my life.” She said. “I had not realised then that it was le Comte de la Fère, who acted as my protector, but nor can I claim to be surprised. The House of la Fère has always served France well and you acquitted yourself both as a peer of this realm and as a musketeer.” There was a hint of rebuke in her tone as she reminded Athos that by the strictest rules of propriety he should have informed her of his rank when he was set to guard her, but her compassion and her gratitude outweighed any disappointment in his conduct.

Athos bowed again and prayed silently that d’Artagnan had now been given enough time to recover his wits. The boy looked as though he expected to be marched to the gallows at any minute.

“We are grateful for your service.” Louis continued, his smile slightly dimmed after Anne’s speech, as though he was aware of having missed a by-play of some kind. “But, that is not the matter on which We have called you here today.” He seemed to forget that he had not summoned Athos at all, but that was all for the better, given the circumstances. Looking out at his court, Louis raised his head, and Athos saw the shadow of a greater king in his features for a moment. “It is with a heavy heart, that we announce the passing of Henri de Batz de Montesquiou, lately le Comte de Castelmore. As Our representative in Gascony he served us honourably and well. Sadly, he has gone to God without direct issue, his only living relative the child of his sister. Charles Ogier d’Artagnan, step forward.”

D’Artagnan moved until he was stood by Athos’ side. At this distance, Athos could see there was a fine tremor building in d’Artagnan’s limbs. He could also see dawning disbelief on d’Artagnan’s face. The boy was by no means stupid. Even in his apprehension at being summoned he must have begun to piece things together as the King delivered his speech. Now, it was only incredulity which prevented him from being fully prepared for what was coming.

“Charles d’Artagnan,” the King continued, “you are the sole legitimate heir to the seat of Castelmore. I, therefore, confirm that all associated titles, lands and monies, which once belonged to your uncle, now, are yours. Kneel.”

D’Artagnan practically dropped to his knees, at the last moment barely remembering to move within arm’s reach of the king. It resulted in an awkward half shuffle that left some of the courtiers giggling behind their hands. The King held out his right hand, and after a moment’s hesitate, d’Artagnan jerkily reached out to clasp the King’s fingers in his own. The poor boy looked as if he were about to faint. Athos closed his eyes against the oncoming embarrassment. D’Artagnan had not been raised a noble’s son. Educated as he was he might know the general theme of the Oath of Allegiance, but there was no way he could know the words: words Athos had been drilled in almost from birth, in anticipation of the day when he himself knelt before the royal throne and swore to serve France above all else.

The queen seemed to share Athos’ trepidation for her hands were clasped against the arms of her seat, her mouth pursed in nervous tension. The Cardinal looked euphoric.

And yet, the King, in a rare moment of insight and compassion, seemed to recognise the predicament his new Comte was faced with. “Repeat after me:" He said, "I, Charles d’Artagnan, do truly and sincerely acknowledge, profess, testify, and declare –”

Louis led d’Artagnan through his oath, and whilst Athos knew that behind him, certain men and women would be trading sly glances and knowing winks, the queen was radiant with pride, smiling at her King and at d’Artagnan as he swore to defend France and her King with his life and with his death, to uphold the laws and offices of the realm and to faithfully obey any command given to him by his sovereign.

At last the oath was ended. D’Artagnan kept his head firmly bowed but Louis was openly pleased. “I confer upon you the rank of Comte and charge you with the protection and governance of the lands and attendant holdings of your family’s seat at Castelmore. I further instil in you the protection and governance of Lupiac and Castelnavet. Your first duty to the Crown will be to restore peace and order to that region. Serve honourably and well.”

D’Artagnan could at least recognise this cue and pressed a grateful kiss to the King’s hand before straightening. Louis beckoned to the page and the boy came forward, the great book he carried open in his arms. “Sign your name below those of your forebears.” The King instructed, “and be hereby and forever more known to this world as de Batz d’Artagnan, Comte de Castelmore.”

D’Artagnan signed the page with a hand which shook only slightly and succeeded in completing his signature without blotting the parchment. At the King’s nod he took the two swift paces back to bring him in line with Athos, still staring straight ahead. The King beamed around at his courtiers, seeming to miss the moue of displeasure on the Cardinal’s face.

“That concludes Our business for today, We shall retire to the gardens; de Castelmore, We expect your departure for Gascony within the week.”

D’Artagnan bowed his compliance before stepping aside to let the royal couple pass. Louis took Anne’s hand in his and squired her from the chamber, the rest of the court falling into step behind. The Cardinal swept to the front of the procession, sparing a poisonous look in d’Artagnan’s direction as he left the room. D’Artagnan stayed where was, seemingly frozen to the spot. It was not until the chamber was empty and the footmen had closed the great doors behind the last of the courtiers that Athos clapped a hand against d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Come,” he said, “let us head back to the garrison. The others will be waiting.”

D’Artagnan threw a helpless gaze out the window where already the sound of courtly laughter and music were beginning to drift in on the breeze. “Won’t the king be expecting us in the garden?”

Athos winced. D’Artagnan was right, of course. The King had enjoyed the spectacle he created, naming a farmer’s son a Comte; he would want d’Artagnan present to enjoy the jokes and gossip no doubt already spreading through the court. Their duty was clear, but attired as they were, soldiers after a night without sleep, and flushed with the dregs of wine, they would be nothing but sport for the crueler courtiers. D’Artagnan would have to endure the sly words and subtle mockery that made for life at court. No insult great enough to merit drawing steel but each little barb heaped upon the next until one’s skin fairly bled with them.

Athos was saved from answering when the doors opened again and one of the queen’s ladies entered. “Her Majesty bade me carry this to you.” She said, handing Athos a note, hastily folded. “She has thoughts of taking a scenic ride through the woods outside the city on the morrow. She wishes for your Captain to arrange an escort.” The lady paused and eyed Athos as if gauging his understanding. “She was most adamant that it be the Comtes de Castelmore and de la Fère who bore this message for her.”

Athos nodded his understanding and gave a bow of thanks, silently blessing the queen for her insight and kindness. The lady dipped a quick curtsey in reply and left the way she had come. D’Artagnan, for his part, seemed to have missed the undercurrent of this exchange, but was satisfied to take the good fortune handed to him. He followed Athos from the palace, accepting his horse from the stable boy with a nod. Athos flicked the boy a coin as a tip and realised that d’Artagnan would need to secure funds before he began his journey south. No doubt his uncle had kept money with a Parisian bank but to access it d’Artagnan would need to proof of his inheritance: he would need his uncle’s signet ring, the keys to Castelmore and more besides. All these, were items his steward should have already passed into his hands. But it was clear from yesterday’s encounter that Audet was appalled at the thought of calling a Gascon farm-boy master, and it was possible that he might withhold these items for as long as possible. Untrained, d’Artagnan would be dependent on his steward for a working knowledge of his house and his lands; for the goodwill of his tenants and his servants. And Audet had the look of a man who would press this type of advantage. Athos spared a thought for Joncas who had served him faithfully until his death. D’Artagnan was unlikely to be so lucky.

The boy was quiet as they rode back to the garrison and Athos was sympathetic to what his friend must be feeling. To all appearances he had known nothing of his mother’s family, and now he was charged with a duty and responsibility for which he was ill-prepared. D’Artagnan, for all his rash behaviour, had a strong sense of honour. The son of a yeoman farmer, he would have known what was owed a liege-lord and what that lord owed his people in return. With LeBarge and the turmoil in Gascony, d’Artagnan was inheriting a region ravaged by tyranny and bled dry by heavy taxes. The rain, which had seemed ever present in the last weeks, began again as they came within sight of the garrison. A thin, grey mizzle, the air seemed to take on a softer quality as the rain hit the streets. D’Artagnan shook himself, as a dog might, but his usual grumbles as to the inclement weather failed to be forthcoming.

When they reached the garrison Aramis immediately came forward to greet them. His face was creased with concern, brows tight as d'Artganan slid from his horse. “Audet is back.” His voice was low, lips close to Athos’ ear, “He's with Treville now.” Audet's presence here could mean a great many things, but Athos hoped it meant that the man was cognizant enough of his duty to have returned to present d'Artagnan with the marks of his rank. He gripped Aramis’ elbow, to show he’d understood and then stepped aside as Aramis darted towards the stables – no doubt in search of Porthos.

Taking d'Artagnan by the arm Athos led the boy into the shadow of the armoury where the clang of the hammers would mask their words from any bystanders. "Audet is with the Captain." Athos said calmly; he tightened his grip as felt d'Artagnan tense beneath him. "You are his master now and you must act appropriately. Shame him and he will resent you for the rest of his days; this is your moment to prove yourself the better man." For a moment he thought d'Artagnan wouldn’t listen to him, but then d'Artagnan slumped and nodded, the fight draining out of him. Athos realised that the boy must be exhausted. In the space of a morning his whole world had been turned upside down. Castelmore was by no means an insignificant holding. Gascony, whilst far from the most prosperous of the provinces, formed a strategic barrier against encroaching Spanish influence. When the _dauphin_ was born, Gascony would belong to him as Duke of Aquitaine; the comtes of the region would be expected to manage the day to day matters of the province on his behalf – when they spoke, it would be with the voice of the _dauphin_.

With a sigh, d’Artagnan headed to Treville’s office. Athos followed, uninvited. D’Artagnan cast him a quick glance but didn’t protest the escort. He knocked on Treville’s door, and waited for the summons to enter.

oOo

The meeting with Audet had gone as well as might reasonably be expected. The man had maintained the barest sense of civility as he discharged his duty and presented d'Artagnan with all the pageantry and paperwork which made him Comte de Castelmore. D’Artagnan at least had enough experience with servants, either from his time at the palace or from watching Constance instruct her maids, to offer clear and precise instructions to Audet before his departure. He was to leave ahead of them, to warn Castelmore of the new Comte’s arrival and to make sure rooms were prepared. At this, Athos had intervened, making it clear that the staff could expect a complement of three musketeers to accompany the Comte on his journeys. D’Artagnan had looked as though he wanted to argue, or more perhaps, that he expected Treville to do so. But Treville said nothing and d’Artagnan was left to simply confirm Athos’ orders.

When Audet had departed, Treville poured them each a glass of wine and pushed one into d’Artagnan’s hand. “Things have changed for you now, d’Artagnan.” He said, leaning back in his seat, as d’Artagnan rubbed his thumb against the side of his glass. “You are hardly the first man of rank to serve in this regiment, nor the only one to be called unexpectedly home to take up the family seat. You will be seconded to Gascony for a period of three months, in the first instance. Though you will naturally need to see to the running of your home and of your lands, the majority of your time must be spent serving the commands of your king. I realise that you have no idea how to run a house the size of Castelmore, let alone how to govern a region, so Athos will be going with you. Officially, he and the others will be there to help you restore the peace. Unofficially, Athos will be giving you a crash course in nobility. You need to know how to speak, how to dress, how to write a letter to a noble of the first rank as opposed to the third. You are woefully underprepared and you have very little time in which to learn.”

D’Artagnan tipped his wine back rather hastily. Treville’s lips quirked in sympathy. “Porthos and Aramis will be coming with us?” D’Artagnan asked and the hope in his voice was almost painful.

Treville nodded. “Together with Beaudoin and his men. I cannot spare more without the King’s express orders, but Gascony is balanced on a knife’s edge. Four men, no matter how skilled, will not be enough.”

D’Artagnan nodded but it was clear to Athos that his thoughts were already elsewhere. He held his left hand as though it were heavy, his uncle’s ring cumbersome on his finger, thick yellow gold and the carved black seal. Treville dismissed them with a wave, telling them to take the rest of the day.

D’Artagnan drifted from the room, rousing only when Porthos accosted him at the bottom of the staircase. Athos joined him, noting the concern on Aramis’ face and the way Porthos held d’Artagnan’s shoulder a little tighter than he might otherwise. Both looked to the foreign ring on d’Artagnan’s finger and Athos could see them put the pieces together.

“Can we go to your rooms?” D’Artagnan asked abruptly, looking at Porthos.

Porthos nodded, though he shot a questioning glace at Athos. Porthos’ rooms were by far the most spacious, fond as he was of friends and company. He had enough seats for everybody and his landlady was fond of Musketeers; she slipped them fresh bread on those mornings when one or more of them stumbled from Porthos’ rooms obviously a little worse for wear.

“We have new orders,” Athos explained. “They would best be explained in private.”

Aramis slung a companionable arm across d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Say no more.” He said, turning to lead the way out of the garrison. “Porthos has room enough to house a conspiracy and I dare say enough wine to dampen the fear of discovery.”

As jokes went, it was a poor one, but d’Artagnan huffed a laugh and he looked a little less likely to collapse beneath the weight of new responsibilities. Porthos took up the conversation as they wound through the streets and Athos was left to bring up the rear. His friends undoubtedly had an idea of what was coming, but Athos was unsure how two men, low-born, who had fought for everything they called their own, would feel about serving now with yet another son of the nobility.


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis refused to settle when they reached Porthos’ lodgings. He paced up and down the length of the room whilst Porthos pressed bread and wine on d’Artagnan. He looked pale and tired, hand rising of its own volition every so often, to check that the packet of letters Audet had given him were still safe inside his jacket. Athos accepted a cup of wine himself and took a seat close to the door. Porthos, in turn, refused to sit until Aramis had quieted, at last pushing his friend into a chair when it became clear that d’Artagnan would not start talking until all were settled.

The tale when it broke, was just absurd enough to be believable. D’Artagnan slid the ring off his finger and held it out for inspection. “Apparently I am now le Comte de Castelmore.” He said, voice a little faint. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t some sort of mistake.”

“It’s no mistake.” Athos told him. “Your mother was the only daughter of Henri de Montesquiou de Castlemore, her brother, your uncle, bore his father’s name. By all accounts it was quite the scandal when your mother eloped with your father – though they were married before I was born. Your grandfather had your mother’s name struck from the family records but he never appealed for formal dissolution to the king. My guess is he didn’t want to bring any further attention to his shame.” He held up a hand as d’Artagnan bristled. “I mean no disrespect. Your mother had the right to marry where she willed and by all accounts your father was a good and honourable man. But you know the pride of the nobility. Your grandfather would never have acknowledged a farmer as his son and so could not acknowledge his daughter either. She was disinherited, and from your surprise earlier I am assuming she received no visit from her family during her lifetime.”

D’Artagnan mutely shook his head. “How do you know all this?”

Athos offered a wry smile. “I was schooled in genealogy. Noble families like to know just where they sit in the pecking order – whose family is older than who’s; whose blood is bluer. My tutors made me memorise the names of all the peers in France, right back to the Italian War.” Returning his attention to d’Artagnan, Athos continued, “There were but two children born to your grandfather and your uncle had no legitimate offspring. As your mother’s only son and with no other legitimate children to claim the title, you are the heir of Castelmore.”

Aramis spun his hat in his hands, looking thoughtful. “But why bring d’Artagnan to court at all? Obviously you had no notion of who your mother was,” he said to d’Artagnan, “you were hardly likely to make a claim. Why not brings the lands back under the crown - redistribute them to favourites or sell them to bolster the Crown purse?”

Athos was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, but it was Porthos who spoke first. “Audet. The man’s unpleasant, I’ll give you that, but I’ll bet good money he knows which side his bread is buttered on. Those lands get sold or given to some other family, he might not hold on to his position. A man of the family line might keep him – for tradition’s sake if nothing else – but another lord? Might as easily instate his own man to the office and then Audet would be out on his ear.”

“He hardly wants to serve under me, though.” D’Artagnan pointed out, remembering the threadbare courtesy with which Audet had addressed him.

“Yeah, but better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

“You’re easily controlled.” Athos added, “At least, that will be the opinion of those who do not know you. A young Comte, without formal training: he knows as well as you how precarious your position is. He will try to manipulate you – either through flattery or curt words; he will seek to provoke a reaction. Trust if he thinks he can get it, distrust amongst your household if it becomes clear he can’t. Your temper with him will inform the opinions of the rest. You must make him your ally, even if you cannot make him a friend.”

“My,” Aramis interjected, “this does sound complicated. I’ve never been so glad I’m not high-born.”

“So, these new orders of ours,” Porthos said, “does this mean you’re headed for Gascony then?”

“All of us.” Athos confirmed. “The King has wants order restored post-haste. We’ll ride out with Beaudoin and his men.”

“We’ll be gone by the end of the week.” D’Artagnan added.

“Not much time to form a campaign.” Aramis mused.

“Less than you think.” Athos countered. He turned to d’Artagnan. “You will need to send word ahead to Audet. He knows to expect us, but as the local Comte and as a musketeer yourself, you will be expected to house and feed the regiment whilst we are in Gascony. If you coffers cannot support a three month stay, we must know as soon as possible.”

D’Artagnan looked a little wild-eyed. "I have no idea how full the coffers are. I’ve never _had_ coffers before.”

“We will visit your bank in the morning. They will have some idea of the funds available to you.”

Athos saw Aramis mouth the word _bank_ at Porthos, who grinned. “So the next bottle’s on you then.” He told d’Artagnan, who smiled with equal good humour.

“I’m sure you would have found a way to make the next bottle mine, even without these change in circumstances.”

Athos felt some of the tension leak from his shoulders. Porthos, at least, seemed unconcerned that he would be serving next to le Comte de Castelmore – though perhaps it had yet to occur to him that whilst on d’Artagnan’s lands they would effectively be under his command. Aramis though, was watching the proceedings quietly and there was a tilt to his mouth that made Athos think that perhaps he was no so sanguine as Porthos.

Aramis caught Athos’ eye and offered him a wry salute, before joining the others' conversation with determined cheer. He knew the path of Athos’ mind and knew that his own discomfort had not gone unnoticed. Still, a confrontation here would do no good. D’Artagnan, at last, seemed to have regained his balance and was idly speculating with Porthos as to the type of food and clothes a Comte might like to buy.

oOo

Sitting down heavily at the garrison table, d’Artagnan swiped Porthos’ cup from his hand and downed the contents.

The coffers of Castelmore were fuller than d’Artagnan ever could have expected. Even Athos had seemed surprised: asking to see the account history, as though convinced there had been some mistake. D’Artagnan had been forced to enquire as to whether his uncle had kept all his wealth with the bank in the city. But no, the clerk assigned to assist them, assured him that this was only a portion of the estate, meant for the purchase and upkeep of a house in the city. Apparently his uncle had been planning a life at court before his unexpected demise. Athos had insisted he draw a generous sum then and there, together with a promissory note from the bank which would buy him credit with tradesmen and merchants in Paris. The credit of the estate would already be established in Gascony.

Now, sitting in the training yard, with Porthos a warm weight beside him and Athos stood beind them, d’Artagnan was beginning to understand the true extent of his new wealth. If he was honest, the thought of so much gold made him a little sick. He could remember winters when the harvest had failed, when they had come close to starving – when their neighbours _had_ starved – and the taxes were called for all the same. He could remember the sickness which had stolen the last of his mother’s health, already depleted after a bitter winter with little food and less firewood. And his mother’s family – safe and warm and well fed not ten miles away – had failed to lift a finger to help her. They hadn’t helped and they hadn’t come to the funeral either. Anger was starting to burn in d’Artagnan’s gut. His mother had been a Lady and neither his uncle nor his grandfather had behaved like Gentlemen to her family. His mother had been buried in a pauper’s grave – though when his father’s fortunes had improved again he had given her a grave marker of stone, rather than a simple cross of wood. His mother should have been buried at the front of the churchyard, when the sun in summer fell through the trees and the air was sweet with the scent of iris petals. Now anyone against whom he could exact retribution was dead and his chance to redress the insult to his mother had passed.

His frown had drawn Porthos’ notice and when his name failed to rouse him, d’Artagnan was brought from his thoughts with a hard knock to the shoulder. He jerked, scowling at Porthos as the larger man leant back and grinned at him, unrepentant.

“There you are.” Aramis swept into the yard, hat rakishly askew and a bruise the size of a woman’s mouth blossoming just below his chin.

Porthos smirked. “And where have you been?”

“Enjoying distraction.” Aramis said, clutching a hand to his breast in mockery of the lover's pose. “And speaking with Beaudoin.” He added.

Athos raised an eyebrow in enquiry, sliding onto the bench opposite Porthos. Aramis sighed, “Treville has given him maps and the tax collectors reports from Gascony; the King may only have ordered our young Comte to quell three parishes, but the unrest spreads across the entire region. The lords there are either idle or absent – what repression had been undertaken has been just this side of violet. Our biggest problem will be the Bishop of Tarbes-et-Lourdes; his guard have been – vigorous – in their enforcement of the King’s law. If he continues as he’s been doing, he’s going to incite the town to open rebellion.”

“Then he will be who we speak to first.” Athos decided. “Ask him to let the regiment take responsibility for law enforcement.”

“There may be a slight problem with that plan.”

“Oh?”

Aramis winced. “He was a patron of LeBarge – on the Cardinal’s orders.”

Porthos’ hand clamped down on d’Artagnan’s shoulders before the boy could push to his feet.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Athos said. “In the meantime, I remember d’Artagnan saying something about the next bottle being on him.”

oOo

Porthos’ laughter filled the small room as Athos once again shook his head and levered d’Artagnan into an upright position. “No, no – too low. You outrank de la Vorais; his family were ennobled only two generations ago. Yours have been entitled for centuries.”

“That bow was no different from my last one or any that came before that.”

“It was two inches lower than last time; believe me, it makes a difference.”

Aramis chuckled and launched a crust of bread at d’Artagnan’s head when the boy glared balefully at him. There was a rich feast spread across the table. D’Artagnan had made good on his promise of a bottle and more beside. Generous with his new-found riches, he had passed Porthos a handful of coins and told him to buy what food and drink he wished. Porthos had returned laden with roast chicken and spiced fish, berries and breads, a bottle of wine and another of Armagnac. He’d also procured a rather fine selection of cheeses which he presented with a flourish. D’Artagnan had immediately seized upon the Saint-Nectaire, setting it close to the fire to warm.

“I haven’t had good cheese since I left Gascony.” He said now, brushing past Athos to pluck the cheese away from the flames. Setting it on the table, he broke the rind with a quick push of the knife, grinning as the warm, soft pate flowed over the top.

“Well, tonight’s the time to treat yourself.” Aramis offered, taking some of the chicken. His tone was a touch more brittle than might be expected and d’Artagnan threw him an odd look. Porthos seemed to know what the matter was; he nudged Aramis with his knee, tipping his head towards the brandy. D’Artagnan let the odd moment pass, but Athos saw him sneaking speculative glances at Aramis throughout the meal.

“So, we ride out in the morning then.” Porthos said, belly full and arms warm and heavy from the alcohol and the fire. Beside him, d’Artagnan was sprawled lazily in his chair, legs thrust out before him, boots a hair’s breadth away from tangling with Porthos’ own. His head was tipped in Athos’ direction, idly watching the man pick through the bowl of sloe berries Aramis had discarded.

“It’s a long ride.” D’Artagnan said, turning his attention back to the others. “We’re perhaps as far away from Paris as you can get. The roads aren’t particularly safe either.”

Porthos grimaced as he recalled the circumstances which had brought d’Artagnan to the city in the first place. With a glance at Aramis, they silently agreed to avoid that particular inn at all costs.

“What are your plans when we get to Castelmore?” Aramis asked. Some of his earlier tension seemed to have bled away, perhaps in the face of food or good company – or perhaps in recognition of the fact that for all his attempts at bravado, d’Artagnan was clearly apprehensive of what was to come.

“I suppose my first duty will be to the house, and then to my tenants.” D’Artagnan said. “No one has mentioned by uncle’s wife – I’m assuming he had one. Is she still alive?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes.” Athos said.

“Then my first duty will be to her. She’s just lost her husband and no one has said whether her _trousseau_ will be enough to support her now that my uncle is dead. I must make provision for her.”

Aramis eyebrows climbed steadily at this pronouncement and even Athos showed signs of obvious surprise. “That is commendable,” he said, “but hardly a duty. Women in her position often elect to enter nunneries. The convent of La Sainte-Croix is close; she would no doubt be welcome there.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “That must be her decision. Should she wish for independence, I will do what I can to provide it. She will keep her rooms and what attendants my uncle gave her until she has reached a decision.”

“Generous of you.” Athos murmured, but said no more on the matter.

“I also intend to visit Lupiac.” D’Artagnan continued. “LeBarge burned several farms in the region. Their owners will have suffered from the loss of the crops and they may have struggled to plant a second harvest before the rains grew too heavy. If the yield was too low, we will need to make plans for relief come winter. Wood will need to be stockpiled, what grain there is will need to be distributed equally. I will need to see what the smoke houses and grain stores are like at Castelmore but we may need to lay in extra meat and fish for the winter – salt it if necessary – but there must be enough food for the villages to see them through if there has been no harvest.”

Porthos had stopped with his cup halfway to his lips, staring at d’Artagnan in amazement. Aramis looked equally stunned.

Athos’ brows drew together and he leant forward, calling d’Artagnan’s attention to him. “Your intentions are admirable but despite what you saw at the bank it is unlikely that Castelmore is well-stocked enough to see three parishes through the full winter. If it is short, perhaps you might yet make your cupboards stretch that far – but your tenants who saw a good harvest will not appreciate having their produce taken away from them, even if secures the survival of others. Fear of ruin will cloud more noble sensibilities; a man might gladly see his neighbour starve, if it meant prosperity for his own family. “

“I know the region, you do not.” D’Artagnan snapped, temper climbing again. “I know how farmers speak to one another and I know what a poor harvest means for a province not just a single farm. The households with grain to spare may not like the idea of redistribution but they also see the sense in it. If one farm fails, others follow – livelihoods are not so independent in the country as they are in Paris.”

Athos raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and leant back in his chair.

“You will help me, won’t you?”

At first Aramis thought d’Artagnan was speaking only to Athos, but as the boy sought each of their gazes in turn, he realised he was wrong. “I know nothing of farming,” he said, “Porthos knows even less. But we are your brothers; we will help as we can. You _can_ trust us.”

D’Artagnan nodded, eyes bright, and Porthos slung a comfortable arm across his shoulders.

“All for one, yeah?” He said, shaking the boy gently, hand clasped against the back of d’Artagnan’s head.

“And one for all.” D’Artagnan followed, the voices of Athos and Aramis providing a soft echo to his words: _and one for all_.

oOo

Gascony smelled of wet dirt and the manure spread in the fields. D’Artagnan at least seemed glad to be in familiar territory but from the way Porthos was shooting the odd glance at Aramis, it was clear he was wondering how long it would take his friend to start taking pot-shots at the birds. They twittered and flit through the trees with an unnerving wholesomeness. Athos pulled his hat lower over his eyes and kept his gaze firmly ahead. They had passed the road to Lupiac half a mile back and d’Artagnan had nearly steered his horse down that fork out of habit. He had reined himself in at the last moment, turning his horse to rejoin the company but Athos knew that to come this far and not to return home must be hard for him.

The sun was starting to slip below the horizon and the fields of Gascony looked to be on fire in the fading light. Below them, the town of Castelmore was sprawled in a tangled of narrow streets. The church spire rose at one end of the collection of houses, the churchyard a bare patch of green before the fields once again reclaimed dominion over the land. Behind all this, lay Chateau Castelmore, a towering monolith above the small, cramped houses of the town. Set some miles above that small knot of civilisation, they would not reach the Chateau until nightfall, but the promise of shelter and food for the night, spurred the column on even as the world descended into twilight.

There were torches guttering against the walls when the horses finally clattered through the gates, hooves ringing against the flagstones and men moving forward from the stables to take charge of the mounts and to lead them to water. Audet was stood on the steps of the main entryway, servants flanking him on either side. With a tip of his hat to Athos and a second to d’Artagnan (taking the boy by surprise) Beaudoin led his men in the wake of their horses, kindly giving d’Artagnan some privacy to fumble through these first greetings. Aramis and Porthos slipped away as well, leaving d’Artagnan stood next to Athos, clearly at a loss as to what was to come next.

“He will want to introduce the staff to you.” Athos murmured, words barely audible over the snorting of horses and the voices of soldiers drifting on the wind. “Go.”

D’Artagnan obediently moved foward and stood awkwardly as Audet introduced him to the senior servants including his Valet and Housekeeper. Fortunately, d’Artagnan had heeded Athos’ advice to send word ahead regarding the presence of the Beaudoin and his men, and Audet announced that one of the smaller barns had been temporarily converted to barracks to house them. Athos, his rank already known, was implicitly offered rooms within the house and Athos was left in a position he had failed to anticipate.

D’Artagnan, of course, would be expected to take up the Comte’s rooms for the duration of his stay and he would undoubtedly need Athos close at hand to help navigate the politics of the house. But for Athos to accept rooms when Aramis and Porthos were to sleep in a barn was unthinkable. Equally to bring just those two into the house and to leave the other musketeers to far less comfortable lodgings would cause dissent amongst the ranks and make d’Artagnan distinctly unpopular.

Fortunately, d’Artaganan, either through naivety or ingenuity, struck upon a solution. Tactfully drawing Audet aside and into Athos’ hearing he enquired after his aunt.

“She is ill, my lord,and keeps to her late husband's chambers.” Audet said quietly, and his concern and obvious affection for the lady were the first real emotions Athos had seen in him. He fidgeted and then added. “In light of her condition, I thought my lord would not object to taking one of the lesser bedrooms for the night. Though of course arrangements can be made, should you wish it to be otherwise.” It was a bold move for a steward. D’Artagnan could hardly demand the room his rank afforded him without seeming churlish, whilst at the same time Audet had succeeded in ensuring that d’Artagnan was reminded once again that he was not truly master here. Still, from the lines carved around the man’s face, it would seem there was also some genuine concern for the health of the Lady.

“Of course she should keep the room.” D’Artagnan said, smiling at Athos as though he had just won a bout with the red guards. “In fact, in light of the concerns for her health, I will sleep with the other men, tonight. Her ladyship need not be disturbed and we will finalise further arrangements in the morning.”

Audet gaped but d’Artagnan merely smiled, clapped him solidly on the arm, and headed for the stables.

“Have food brought to our lodgings,” Athos told Audet, “and let the household know that we will have no need for attendants tonight.”

Audet nodded, jerkily, perhaps unsure whether the orders of le Comte de la Fère should be accepted in want of any others, but he went, bustling back inside, the rest of the household following. Athos found d’Artagnan in the stables, cosseting his horse and trading jokes with one of the stable-boys, who obviously had no idea who he was speaking with. At Athos’ appearance, d’Artagnan gave his horse a final pat and came to join him, sending the boy off to his supper.

In the barn, a trestle table had been laid down the centre, beds arrayed in neat rows along the walls. It was small and dark, the only light coming from what lamps had been spared from the house and a fire which had been built beneath a hole in the roof by the rear wall. The hole did not look deliberate and there were other signs of misuse and disrepair, evident even in the half-darkness. A large vat of steaming stew had been brought in, together with several rounds of bread, and the men were dividing this between them. D’Artagnan slung his leg over the bench beside Porthos, as comfortable here as he was in the garrison.

In Paris, in those initial days, after Audet’s visit, news of d’Artagnan’s inheritance had spread rapidly. There had been a few furtive glances, some of the more well-born sons had looked bemused or askance, upon learning d’Artagnan was now one of them, but for the most part few paid it any mind. D’Artagnan’s character had hardly changed overnight and he was still considered by most to be green around the ears, his pauldron still new and shiny. Beaudoin, at least, seemed to have some sense that here, things might have to change. He served d’Artagnan first, with a request to pass thanks to the cook. D’Artagnan started, and then nodded, muttering that he would be glad to do so. There was a stilted silence after that, whilst the others waited for bowls to be passed their way and d’Artagnan stared fixedly at his spoon. The tension was broken when Aramis stood to say a grace and everyone in the room hastily crossed themselves and clasped their hands above their plates.

Such prayers were rarely said amongst the regiment, and whilst Aramis was in the habit, he had never made a spectacle of it before. Athos knew it had been done to draw attention away from d’Artagnan, who seemed to realise that he was expected to be the first to eat and so pushed an overly large spoonful into his mouth the moment Aramis resumed his seat.

Around the table, others followed suit. Gradually the low murmur of voices rose in its usual way, men’s faces flickering in the dancing firelight, the heat from the stew rising in a fine mist off the table. The bread was soft and fresh, better fare than the regiment could have expected, had d’Artagnan not insisted on dining with them. Too soon, the plates were cleared and the men were stacking the plates and cutlery into neat piles to be dealt with in the morning. A maid slipped discretely through the doorway, carrying a set of pillows and a thick wool blanket. D’Artagnan stared in not a small amount of horror before relieving the girl of her burden with a quick word of thanks. Athos saw her slide a coy look in d’Artagnan’s direction before bobbing a quick curtsy and retreating. Aramis, stood close enough to notice the exchange, laughed at d’Artagnan’s expense. The laughter drew attention: to Aramis and to d’Artagnan stood beside him still clutching pillows and a blanket. Athos could see the curl of derision on Ponbras face, the careful blankness of Guillme that said he disapproved of one man taking luxury but would not say anything.

D’Artagnan stared down at his bundle and then abruptly marched across the room and dumped the load on Faubert’s bed. The man was still recovering from a sword slice across the back and days in the saddle would have left his muscles knotted and sore. D’Artagnan wordlessly spread the pillows and blankets atop the hay mattress, creating a feather topping to what would otherwise have been a hard and unforgiving bed.

Aramis took his cue easily enough and offered to inspect the wound to check its progress. The stitches had been removed before they left Paris, but the offer played into the fantasy d’Artagnan was creating and Faubert was in enough pain to accept Aramis’ ministrations, if only for the hope of some relief from the interminable aches.

Resolutely, d’Artagnan took the bed furthest from the fire and lay his bedroll down with a determined air. Porthos staked out the three beds next to him, gently booting one of the others across the room when it looked like they might be one short. Athos took the space next to d’Artaganan, leaving a gap for Aramis, whilst Porthos took the final space. Athos worried for a moment that they might be two berths short, if he and d’Artagnan had been expected to sleep in the house. But, as the men all bedded down to sleep, there did not seem to be a shortage of space.

The fire had burnt low while they were eating and as his eyes slipped closed to sleep, Athos could see the outline of Beaudoin tending the flames, building them high again before going to his own rest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains references to chronic illness, period-specific racism, and describes a manic episode suffered by someone who has been medically provided a chronic overdose of opiates.

Morning dawned cool and fresh. D’Artagnan had rolled closer to Athos in the night and Aramis had curled towards the heat of Porthos. Waking sober was a new experience for Athos and not always a welcome one. The chill, for instance, was more keenly felt without the cloak of alcohol in his veins. Pushing to his feet, Athos stretched to pull the knots from his back. His movement woke d’Artagnan who rolled onto his back with a groan, the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.

“Time is it?” he mumbled, hands still pressed to his face.

“Early.” Athos replied, moving across to nudge Aramis awake. Out of the corner of his eye he saw d’Artagnan step outside, head tilted up to the weak morning sunlight. D’Artagnan must have slipped back to the stables or out of sight around the back of the barn, because the maid who brought a basket of cheese and bread for their breakfast gave no sign that she had seen him.  
D’Artagnan did not return for breakfast and though Aramis went out to look for him, he returned empty handed. His horse was still in the stables but, when questioned, none of the staff would admit to having seen him. Porthos scowled as he ate, one eye fixed on the door while he chewed.

Beaudoin agreed to lead his men on patrol for the morning, leaving Athos at the chateau with the others. There was a tacit understanding that for the immediate future, d’Artagnan and Athos would be detached from the regiment. Beaudoin was also aware of how foolish it would be to call Aramis and Porthos away with him – the three inseparables had become four and Beaudoin saw no need to force the unit apart unduly.

D’Artagnan returned in time to see Beaudoin and his men mount up, pointed him in the direction of the right road and then stepped back. As the troop trotted out of the gates, Aramis corralled d’Artagnan and brought him back to the others. The knuckles of d’Artagnan’s right hand were scraped, and his palms looked red and bruised.

“I suppose I need to go inside.” D’Artagnan said. He looked less than thrilled by the prospect.

“That seems like the right place to start.” Aramis agreed.

Porthos shifted his weight uneasily, and Athos knew he was wary of entering the house. Castelmore was an imposing building. Three stories high at the corners, turrets reaching toward the sky, it spoke to the wealth of the family. Porthos had rarely been well-received in such houses and though d’Artagnan was master now, the derision of the staff would grate.

With a sigh, d’Artagnan made his way up the steps, needing both hands to push open the heavy doors guarding the way. Athos noticed the royal seal carved into the entablature, an obvious sign of royal favour when the chateau had been built.

Inside, the polished stone of the entryway shone with liquid brightness. To the left a grand wooden staircase lapped the wall, climbing to the second story. The runner was a rich brocade and bright, gilt paint picked out the intricacies of the carving in the rail. Paintings adorned the wall and d’Artagnan, just as he had in Athos’ home, stepped forward to inspect them. The others drifted after him, Athos turning his head subtly to see if he could spot any of the household staff. Strange, that they would not be attending to their tasks at this hour.

It was the portrait of a young woman, barely more than girl, which drew d’Artagnan’s attention. Her relationship to the boy was obvious – the same dark eyes, the same strong brows. She shared his nose and the arch of his cheekbones. Her face was delicate, and there was laughter in her eyes and at the corner of her mouth.

“Your mother?” Aramis asked gently. D’Artagnan nodded, unable to speak past the knot in his throat. “She was beautiful.” D’Aratgnan blinked rapidly and abruptly turned away. The others feigned ignorance, as he regained his composure, taking time to inspect the other portraits. A proud old man, no doubt d’Artagnan’s grandfather, stared down at them from higher on the wall. Below him, a man similar enough to be his son; beside him another lady, paler than was fashionable and thin.

They were interrupted as the man, who, last night, had been introduced as d’Artagnan’s valet, rounded the corner. He seemed momentarily startled to see the company in the entryway but recovered with remarkable poise. He offered a deep bow in d’Artagnan’s direction and then straightened and stood at attention.

“Hello.” D’Artagnan offered, rather feebly, and Athos sensed Aramis clap a hand to his brow in despair.

To his credit the valet did not bat an eyelash. “Monsiegneur. How may I be of service?”

D’Artagnan cast a somewhat panicked look in Athos’ direction. Athos raised an eyebrow, unsure what it was the boy wanted from him and reluctant to issue orders in d’Artagnan’s house lest the staff lose all respect for their new lord, entirely.

Luckily, that one look seemed to help d’Artagnan rally, for he stood straighter and surer, though he did not move from where he stood. “I was told last night that my aunt is ill. Does she still keep to her bed?”

“She does, Monsiegneur.” The Valet replied. “Claudine, her maid, is with her now, but her ladyship has not yet rung for breakfast.”

D’Artagnan seemed to be debating something internally. Then, with another quick glance at Athos, he said, haltingly. “I would pay my respects to my aunt before the close of the morning. If you would be so good as to let her maid know that I will attend my aunt at her convenience, I would be obliged.” He was obviously trying to emulate the more formal phrases he had heard at court on occasion though his hesitance and soft tone lent the order a passive air which in other circumstances might have made him seem foppish and weak. In the strictest terms, his aunt should be paying her respects to him, not the reverse. Fortunately, the lady’s condition made d’Artagnan’s concession seem like a generosity. When it became clear that d’Artagnan considered his orders given and that no, more formal, dismissal would be forthcoming, the valet bowed again, and departed.

The valet must have gone to find housekeeper en route to perform his duties, because the woman in question appeared within moments of the other man’s departure. Athos decided to spare d’Artagnan the embarrassment of a repeat performance and turned to him, as though they had been mid-way through a conversation.

“I am sure there will be little work for you to complete.” He said, ignoring the confusion on the others’ face at this abrupt change of topic. “Naturally, you cannot say how close the house runs to your own tastes until you have seen all the rooms, but your staff clearly know their business and your aunt’s choices are fashionably stated.” He indicated the polished floor and the rich, dyed curtains that hung beside the main doorway. The colours were perhaps not the latest style, but a country house could hardly be expected to keep step with Paris every season, and whilst the wealth of the estate was evident in the quality of materials, the furniture and decoration of the entryway suggested a modest taste and a reasonable expenditure.

The housekeeper took her cue from Athos’ comments and swiftly offered d’Artagnan a tour of the property and what she knew of its history. D’Artagnan accepted eagerly and as they moved from room to room, took a quick and obvious shine to his housekeeper. A woman just passing out of middle age, her grey hair was secured neatly beneath an un-dyed cap, her dress dark and plain but of good quality and suited to her position. The keys to the house jangled at her waist and her step was quick enough that at times the others struggled to keep pace. Aramis in particular, finding himself distracted by some trinket or other, would often have to hurry to catch up with the rest of the party.

The woman’s name was Madame Salber and she remembered d’Artagnan’s mother with an obvious fondness. Though she carefully did not speak of the circumstances surrounding the Lady’s departure, d’Artagnan listed in raptures as he was told tales of his mother as young girl: sneaking sweets from the kitchen and hiding from her nurse behind the drapes. In turn, d’Artagnan’s youthful enthusiasm and kind demeanour was winning him Madame’s affections and her respect. From the critical way in which she eyed d’Artagnan’s form, Athos was sure she had deemed him too skinny and was already thinking of what foods might be most wholesome for him and how soon she would be able to instruct the cook.

But what secured her favour with d’Artagnan, and undoubtedly his loyalty, was that she treated Porthos no differently from Aramis. To Athos she showed more deference, but then he had been introduced to her as a man of rank. But, for the others, it was clear she saw only two soldiers – friend’s of her master and his guests. Perhaps it helped that the de Montesquiou ine could hardly be described as pale.

Porthos relaxed as they toured the chateau and accepted Aramis’ good natured taunts when he stumbled over the corner of a rug in the library. Athos could easily understand his distraction. To Porthos, who treasured each word he read, and stored it against future drought, the library of Castelmore must have seemed richer than a dragon’s hoard. It was large enough to rival the collection Athos had seen at the Comtesse de la Roc’s – obviously a labour of love across the generations. The room enjoyed good natural light and space enough to study in comfort: a large sofa was arrayed in the middle of the room, a table and chair set before the window, looking out across the manicured gardens and the orchard beyond them.

“On her better days, her ladyship likes to write her letters here.” Madame Salber said, curling a hand across the back of the chair. “But there have been precious few good days of late.”

D’Artagnan grimaced in sympathy, turning from the bookshelves he was inspecting. “My uncle’s death must have been quite hard on her.” The housekeeper visibly hesitated and d’Artagnan stepped forward, concerned. “What is it?”

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Monsiegneur, but how much do you know of your aunt’s condition?”

“Only that she is ill. And has been so since before we arrived. Why? How serious is her illness.”

“She has been sick for quick some time, Monsiegneur. She tires easily and even gentle exercise can leave her bedridden for days. It has grown worse as the years have passed; the doctors can do little for her.”

Aramis shook his head at the news. Athos remember he had once spoken of such a condition; the strength of a patient seeming to leave them day by day, only to return in odd fits and starts, for respite to appear on the horizon and then for fatigue to overtake all else again.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” D’Artagnan said. He seemed unsure of what else to say.

Athos made some inane enquiry about the history of the room and Madame Salber gladly resumed her tour of the property. Castelmore was a large house and the cost of the upkeep would undoubtedly be a shock to d’Artagnan when he finally got a chance to review the house books. As the viewing concluded, d’Artagnan made enquiries about the grounds and the land surrounding the chateau – whether a tour would be possible in the afternoon. Athos knew enough of his friends’ mind to know that d’Artagnan’s thoughts had already turned to the farms and their harvest. Beaudoin would be able to add his report, come evening, but d’Artagnan was already convinced that the peace of the region would hinge of the prosperity of the fields. Athos was less sure but he also recognised that he was not a farmer, that la Fere had thrived on its proximity to the capital, on the easy roads to the northern ports – farming had been less important for his people and skilled craftsmen comprised a far larger number of his tenants than d’Artagnan’s. From what he had seen of the villages as they passed through Gascony only the larger towns could boast any sizeable quantity of skilled trade – blacksmiths and farriers being the exception. He knew from comments made by the housekeeper that most of the skill in the region was centred around the bishopric: ceramics, fine cloth, fine jewellery, if not imported from Paris or one of the other cities came from Tarbes. By all accounts the Bishop kept a table fit for a king.

* * *

 

They were served cool drinks and spiced refreshments at a delicate table perched above the lawns. D’Artagnan looked decidedly uncomfortable, Porthos even more so, but Aramis helped himself readily enough. In the distance hounds could be heard barking, the voice of a man calling them to heel. D’Artagnan’s gaze followed the sound and Athos found himself wondering if the boy’s uncle had kept dogs for the hunt, and whether d’Artagnan would keep them when he showed no particular inclination for the practice himself.

Aramis was helping himself to another delicately presented little cake when d’Artagnan’s valet appeared at his elbow. The man moved almost silently and d’Artagnan visibly started at finding someone beside him.

“Monsiegneur, your aunt is awake.”

D’Artagnan nodded and stood, waving a hand when Athos stood to accompany him. “No. I have to do this alone. Besides,” he tipped a wry grin in Athos’ direction, “what were you going to do? Stride into her bedchamber and watch me say hello?”

Athos subsided with bad grace but let d’Artagnan follow his valet into the house unaccompanied. It was true that with no familial claim and not even the barest of introductions, he could hardly stand in the lady’s room simply to police her nephew’s actions. He had to remind himself that d’Artagnan did not need constant watching; that whilst these circumstances may be new to him, his responsibilities were his alone. Still, he could not be happy to leave the boy to fend for himself – his aunt’s character was unknown and she might seek to extract unreasonable or excessive promises of generosity from d’Artagnan before he noticed the trap that was laid for him.

Porthos was staring fixedly after d’Artagnan, seeming to share Athos’ misgivings. Aramis was glaring at his cup, apparently less enthralled with the selection of sweets presented him, than he had been mere minutes before.

“What’s wrong?” Athos asked and Aramis jerked, drawn from his reverie.

The movement draw Porthos’ attention. “Alright,” he said, “enough. You’ve been blowing hot and cold for weeks now: ever since d’Artagnan was called before the King. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Aramis said. “Everything’s fine, my friend.”

Porthos snorted his disbelief and Athos tipped his head in agreement. Aramis’ moods had not gone unnoticed but as they had coincided not only with d’Artagnan’s inheritance but also with an increase in public interest in the royal pregnancy he had assumed the cause was something rather more personal than d’Artagnan’s sudden fortunes.

Porthos looked set to press further when a sudden shriek from an upstairs window had them racing for the house. Athos drew his gun and he reached the top of the stairs, casting about momentarily to locate the source of the disturbance. Another terrible scream tore through the house and Athos ran down the hall to the bedroom at the far end: the Comte’s bedchambers. The room had been avoided, for obvious reasons, during their tour, but now the door stood open and Athos could see the violent thrash of limbs and hear d’Artagnan yelling at someone to move away.

Porthos burst past Athos, pistol in hand, and Aramis followed. It was quickly clear that their weapons were not needed here. D’Artagnan was leaning his full weight across the bed, trying desperately to keep a woman, who could only be his aunt, from breaking her wrists against the furniture. Porthos quickly moved to assist him. The woman was sobbing uncontrollably, alternatively screaming and begging, her eyes fixed on some vision only she could see. In Porthos’ arms she quickly subsided, clinging to him and sobbing like a child, face buried in his shoulder. There were two footmen and a stablehand clustered at the far end of the room, each clutching ropes and buckles; the maid was pressed into a corner, hands crammed against her mouth and the first signs of a bruise blossoming on her skin. Audet was beside them, red in the face and looking ready to spit venom. D’Artagnan ignored them, helping Porthos ease his aunt back down against the pillows, brushing her hair from her face. She reached for him, unseeing, dry palm rasping against his cheek, before she let her hand drop to the coverlet – exhausted and weak.

A delicate cup was shattered on the carpet, a bitter red-brown tea spilling across the fibres. Athos recognised the scent of poppy and caught sight of the large teapot perched on a small table near the dresser. Aramis must have seen it also, because he quickly holstered his weapon and strode across the room to inspect the pot. “Nearly empty.” He said. He pressed a hand against the side. “Still warm.” Turning, he located the maid still cowering in the corner. “How much did you give her? How long has she been drinking this?”

The girl shook her head wordlessly, eyes drifting back to the bed; tears were beginning to slip down her face. Aramis gentled, softening his tone as he moved closer. “You’re not in any trouble.” He said kindly. “But I need to know how much she drank and how long she’s been using poppy tea.”

The girl, Claudine, Athos recalled, straightened, breathing deeply as she smoothed a hand down her skirts. “That is the second pot of the morning.” Claudine said. “She was so thirsty, but she would take nothing else – not even water; she gets pains, in her limbs, because she is too weak to move. The doctor said the tea would help ease the pain.”

“And how long has she been taking it?”

“Three, perhaps four, cups a day for the past four months.” Claudine replied. “She has had these fits before, sometimes they are violent, sometimes she simply weeps.”

“And no one explained to you that poppy must be given in small doses and only for short periods? That if too much is taken it can cause the mind to become distressed and that those who take it, begin to crave it?”

Claudine shook her head. “I didn’t know.”

Aramis laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder and turned to look back at the bed. D’Artagnan’s aunt appeared to have fallen into sleep and both Porthos and d’Artagnan had moved away. There was a sound like a hissing kettle behind him and then Aramis felt Claudine yanked, sharply, to the left. He spun, in time to see Audet strike the girl across the face."You stupid girl, is this the care you given your mistress?” Aramis leapt to come between them even as d’Artagnan’s voice cracked across the room like a whip.

“Audet. Enough.”

The room seemed to freeze and Audet seemed to remember that far from being in a room solely with the insensate wife of his late master, he was also in the presence of his new.

D’Artagnan stood tall and proud, righteous anger giving him the authority he might otherwise have lacked. “Claudine did nothing wrong. If there was a lack of understanding, she is not to blame. I assume that the application of restraints were your idea.” He nodded to the ropes and buckles the serving men held, and Audet flushed with indignation. It was clear what d’Artagnan thought of his solution. Athos pressed a hand to d’Artagnan’s back, a quiet warning to leave it at that, not to shame his steward in front of the other staff. D’Artagnan shifted his shoulders in silent acknowledgement. “Aramis will take over my aunt’s care for the moment; he knows the uses of poppy and what to do if too much has been given. For now we need water and some broth. Have someone show my friend,” he indicated Aramis, “to the kitchens. He will know what is needed.”

Audet gave a jerky bow and departed, signalling one of the footmen to lead Aramis downstairs. The others also departed, Claudine sinking down into a chair by her mistress’s side when d’Artagnan procured one for her.

Porthos and Athos were a comforting weight beside him, warm and solid, as he looked down at the frail creature in the bed. His aunt’s hair was dry and thin, spread across her pillow like straw; she looked close to death and d’Artagnan wondered how much longer she could go on.

“I don’t want a doctor in here until Aramis has had a chance to tend her.” He said quietly to Athos, “But Audet, at least, will expect me to call one. How long can I wait?”

“An hour perhaps, no more. There has clearly been a doctor treating her and Aramis’ credentials as a healer are hardly known here; nor, I expect, would your aunt, were she in her right mind, accept a musketeer as a physician.”

“If the man’s a bloodletter, Aramis is going to have a fit.”

“I’ll take care of Aramis.” Porthos rumbled. “You just do what needs doing for your aunt.”


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis spurred his horse over the crest of the hill and waited for d’Artagnan to catch up. Keeping his horse at a slow trot, d’Artagnan was keeping pace with the local abbé, who had been loaned a horse from d’Artagnan’s stables for the journey. And wasn’t that a thought: _d’Artagnan’s_ stables. Audet was bringing up the rear, hot and sour and jouncing on his horse in a manner that was frankly embarrassing for a man raised in the country. D’Artagnan was gesturing expressively as he drew level with Aramis. The abbé was following the line of his arm, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare of the late afternoon sun. Clustered at the base of a small knoll was a hovel, smoke rising from the crooked chimney. It was not the only one of its kind in the area. There were similar dwellings scattered on the edges of each farm in the parish – the homes of poorer farm-hands and their families. D’Artagnan was clearly concerned with keeping his work force alive through the winter, peppering the abbé with questions as to the condition and size of the families in the parish. It was strange to see d’Artagnan take charge in such a way. He was obviously a knowledgeable farmer, as even Audet had been forced into grudging respect at the breadth and depth of d’Artagnan’s questions, but to Aramis the boy had been cast in the role of the apprentice when he joined their lives and it was strange to see him now breaking that mould. He was happy for the boy, truly. An independence and a secure future were nothing to be sniffed at. Still, the knowledge rankled.

Athos had hit the nail on the head when he called d’Artagnan _generous_. That was the problem, wasn’t it. That d’Artagnan would be _too_ generous. Aramis had been forced to make his own way in the world and he had earned every coin he could put to his name. D’Artagnan, good to his friends and now with so much more wealth to spread around, would undoubtedly start making gifts. Perhaps he would not call them such, but meals and wine would be purchased for the group more frequently and it wasn’t hard to imagine that simple things like that might easily give way to more substantial treats: a new shirt when Aramis ripped his own past mending, a gun or a sword to replace one broken in combat – never mind that the garrison armoury could equip him. Aramis did not want to see himself become a cause for charity – even if that would never be d’Artagnan’s intent. Call him proud, but he felt he had earned more than that.

D’Artagnan nudged his horse to the side as Audet finally reach them, gasping and flapping like a landed fish in the saddle. Wordlessly, Aramis handed him a water skin, raising an eyebrow in challenge when Audet looked ready to refuse him. The man sucked the water down like he was dying. From the corner of his eye he could see d’Artagnan watching them with concern.

“Perhaps we should leave the rest for another day.” He said, ostensibly addressing d’Artagnan, but with an eye still on Audet.

D’Artagnan nodded, twisting to judge the distance to the chateau. They had taken a circular route to reach their current point, spiraling out through the village and farmland as the abbé spoke spiritedly to d’Artagnan about the lifecycle of the parish. “It’s less than an hour’s ride, even at a walk.” He said, turning back around. “Let’s give the horses a rest for now; we’ll still be back well before we lose the light.”

The horses could have kept a much harder pace, and had on previous campaigns, but Aramis could see the ploy behind the words. Dismounting, he offered a discreet hand to Audet, who practically fell to the ground as he slithered gracelessly from the saddle. D’Artagnan had wrapped his reigns around his saddle horn, trusting his horse to stay within easy reach and was making his way on foot towards the hovel, where a woman with a child balanced on her hip had stepped out of the doorway.

“I’ll just stay with the horses.” Aramis called after him. D’Artagnan gave a quick turn and a wave to acknowledge he’d heard him and then returned to speaking to the abbé. As a precaution, Aramis looped the reins of the abbé’s horse through d’Artagnan’s, and then did the same to Audet’s and his own. Flopping back down in the grass, Aramis tipped his hat over his face and closed his eyes. The grass was warm and thankfully dry. Audet stayed resolutely upright.

Aramis had no inclination for the type of dull conversation that would suit Audet, so he remained silent. Wind rustled through the countryside and birds and livestock added to the song. As yet, Aramis had yet to see any obvious signs of discontent and the farms seemed healthy. Though he was hardly fool enough to hope for outright rebellion whilst they were in Gascony, he had hoped  _some_ excitement might present itself. If not he was going to have to find his own and then Porthos would be upset with him.

D’Artagnan returned much quicker than expected, swinging into the saddle with brusque efficiency. Aramis could tell that his visit to the family at the knoll had disturbed him and hurried to mount up as well. From the way d’Artagnan’s knee was twitching, Aramis could tell the boy wanted to kick his horse into a canter, to race back to Castelmore, chasing that particular mental blankness that came from the wind in your hair and a horse between your knees. Still, he refrained, leading his horse in a tight circle as Audet struggled to lift himself into the saddle without a mounting box. In the end Aramis reached over and bodily hauled the man up, holding the horse in place until the steward had settled and gathered the reins.

“Go.” Aramis told d’Artagnan. “The house is easy enough to find. We’ll see you there.”

D’Artagnan waivered, clearly unsure about leaving Aramis as the only gun in the party. But the road was quiet and Aramis gave him an encouraging nod. Offering a smile of thanks that looked more like a grimace, d’Artagnan kicked in his heels and sped ahead. He head was bent low to the saddle, cloak flaring behind him.

Aramis glanced at the abbé, curious to see if the man would offer an explanation, and after a moment's consideration, he did. “Not all are pleased that an heir has come forward.” He said in a low voice. “There are those who hoped that without the King’s representative in the region, the taxes might be foregone this year. Your friend’s presence has laid waste to those ideas.”

“Stupidity.” Audet scoffed from Aramis’ other side. “Fools to think that they would be exempt from taxes; ungrateful to spurn their lord when he is responsible for their protection.”

“Not all memories are quite as short as your's appears to be.” The abbé returned sharply. “Many remember that whilst the late Comte may have granted his protection to this parish he was not so gracious to Lupiac and Castelnavet.”

Audet sniffed. “They were not his responsibility.”

“It was his _Christian duty_ to protect them.”

“Gentlemen.” Aramis interrupted. “Peace. I am assuming we are talking about LeBarge and his villainy?”

The abbé looked as though he might have spat at the name had he not been ordained. Curiously, Audet looked much the same.

“That man was little more than a brigand,” Audet snarled, “protected by the skirts of the Cardinal.”

“With all due respect for his Eminence’s grace and authority, naturally.” The abbé added mildly.

“Naturally.” Aramis agreed. “He’s dead now.” He added. “Killed in combat by le Comte de Castelmore, in fact.”

“May god have mercy on his soul.” The abbé intoned, solemnly; Audet echoed him with a grudging “Amen”.

Aramis was quite sure that neither man had any intention of praying for LeBarge’s soul.

* * *

Athos was cosseting his horse when d’Artagnan arrived back at the chateau. The afternoon was still young; Athos had not expected the company back for some time yet. It was soon evident that d’Artagnan was unaccompanied. Aside from the clop of hooves as d’Artagnan led his horse into the stables, the courtyard was quiet. There was no answering echo from Aramis’ mount or from those lent to Audet and the abbé. D’Artagnan shook his head at the stableboy who came to take the reins, slipping into an empty stall and bending to fill the trough with a mash of oats. D’Artagnan’s horse snorted its approval, head eagerly sinking down to its feed. Saddle and bridle were removed with d’Artagnan’s usual efficiency. The stableboy was still hovering, unsure, at the edges. Athos noted with interest that he was the same lad they had met the night before and it was clear someone had since explained to him just who d’Artagnan was. Now the poor lad seemed terrified of moving even an inch without a proper dismissal.

Beckoning him forward, Athos handed across his tack, instructing the boy to give it a quick polish. “What’s your name?” He asked, as the boy lifted the tack from his hands.

“Jean, Monsiegneur.”

“How many hands are there?”

“There is the chief ostler, his two assistants and myself, Monsiegneur.” Athos nodded his dismissal and the boy darted away. A small staff then, for such a large stable. The previous Comte de Castelmore had clearly kept a small herd of very fine horses – no doubt for breeding – and from the size of the stables was used to company who travelled with more than one horse apiece. It had been the same in the house: a steward, the housekeeper and valet, a lady’s maid for the ailing aunt and two footmen. The kitchen undoubtedly housed a cook and at least one maid for laundry. There were perhaps other staff on hand to tend the grounds, but it would seem that d’Artagnan’s uncle had kept a household no bigger than the one Athos had kept at la Fère – though Athos had scorned the need for a steward. It was a curious juxtaposition to what little Athos knew of the man. From Audet's character he had surmised d’Artagnan’s uncle to be a man who expected a certain degree of ceremony in his dealing with his staff and the man’s behaviour towards d’Artagnan’s mother - to have ignored his sister and her son so completely – spoke to a certain degree of pride and ‘noble’ sensibility. Yet his wife had no rooms of her own, or had, at least, spent most of her nights in her husband’s chambers. Sick as she was, Athos thought the Comte would have spared himself the troubled sleep and sent his wife to her own bed, but the room had shown touches of their lives together: a wooden screen clearly meant for a man’s use, but with larks and vines picked out in loving detail on the edges; the embroidered edges of a handkerchief, baring the late Comte’s monogram wrapped again in a motif of vines. Athos knew the signs of a man who loved his wife. That the Comtesse had not kept her own apartments upon her husband’s death spoke to a depth of real feeling between the couple and Athos felt pity for the woman stir in his breast.

Hooves in the courtyard and the sound of boots hitting the ground, signalled Aramis’ return. The abbé it would seem had been set down closer to his church, for Aramis led in the horse, unaccompanied by a rider. The stable hands were rushing to assist Audet, who walked as if he had been straddling a mountain for the duration of the ride. D’Artagnan raised his head from where he had buried it against his horse's neck and told Audet to return to the house and rest. It was clear the afternoon’s exertion had drained the man and he hobbled away in relief; d’Artagnan simply pressed his forehead to his mount’s flank again.

Aramis traded a concerned glance with Athos, and moved closer as the stable hands led the two spare horses away. Aramis' own horse stayed by his side, stamping and snorting as it eyed the mash in a bucket by the stall doorway. “Where’s Porthos?” Aramis asked quietly.

“Writing the report of the journey here for Treville.” Athos said. “I told Beaudoin we would take care of it and it was his turn.”

Aramis snorted. Report writing was a duty both he and Porthos loathed and despite the notion that they would each take turns, Athos more often than not found himself the author of their works. d’Artagnan had a fair hand but in his eagerness to brush over some of his friends more rash actions, he had a tendency to leave rather obvious holes in his report; he had not yet learned to be as economic with the truth as Athos.

Fortunately, the journey south had been largely uneventful and Porthos would have that rare joy: a short report. Setting to the care of his own mount, Aramis traded a conversation of looks and half-made gestures with Athos as they both watched d’Artagnan. The boy had at last roused himself enough to finish currying his horse and now was simply petting the beast, whispering low words in his horse’s ear, fingers tangled in the black mane.

“Did something happen on your ride today?” Athos asked, mildly, knowing that with d’Artagnan a frontal assault was often best for prying information from him.

“The abbé said you were not well-received by the family you visited.” Aramis added, when d’Artagnan stayed silent.

For a while the only sound in the stables was the soft breath of the horses and the wet crunch as they ate their oats. “It wasn’t that.” D’Artagnan said at last. “At least, not only. I was expecting it, in a way. It was that they spoke Gascon.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “I imagine many in the region speak that tongue. Why would that unsettle you?”

D’Artagnan’s mouth curled downwards and he took a step back, placing his horse’s shoulder between himself and Athos’ line of sight. “I couldn’t answer them.” He said, and Aramis had to strain to hear the words, he spoke so quietly. “Less than a year in Paris and I couldn’t remember the right words. I know them now – they came to me on the road as I was riding – but I was speaking to Madame and I – I couldn’t think of the word. She laughed at me; she was right to.” Embarrassment heated d’Artagnan’s cheeks, but though the memory of the woman’s scorn was grating, what was worse was the sense of shame that rose from far deeper in his memory. What would his father think to know his only son now struggled with the language they had once both shared? His mother had always spoken the French of Paris to him (a fact which now made much more sense) but with his father it had mostly been Gascon. The ledgers for the farm were kept in that language, as was the deed to the land and the property; his father had never written in French unless he had been forced to send a letter outside the region.

“You have had no one to speak the language with, in months.” Aramis said. “It’s only natural that you might struggle initially.”

“For a language I have known since birth?” d’Artagnan scoffed, annoyed at the attempt to comfort him – though he knew Aramis meant well.

“My mother spoke Spanish to me since I was in the cradle. My first year in the army I refused to speak a word of it – conflict with Spain seemed inevitable and I wanted to give no one a reason to question my loyalty. When I returned home, my mother asked me a question and I was forced to answer her in French. She cuffed me round the ears so hard my head didn’t stop ringing her a week.” He braced his hip against the stall door, arms crossed as he stared at d’Artagnan until the boy reluctantly meant his gaze. “You had no trouble understanding her did you?” He pressed, “It was only that the words wouldn’t come to your tongue when you needed them.” D’Artagnan nodded. “Then your memory will return with time. Listen to what is spoken around you, you’ll find you regain your mastery within a day or so.”

D’Artagnan huffed, only half in agreement, but his countenance seemed lighter in the face of Aramis’ words and with a pat he stepped out from behind the shield of his horse entirely. Athos, having acquired other languages only through deliberate tuition could offer nothing to the conversation. His Spanish and German were passable enough for conversation, though he would be hesitant to try and express himself to anyone of standing. With Italian he was a little better, having had a natural affinity for the language and a quiet love of Italian philosophy in his youth. Still, he knew that his proficiency with each had faded since the devastation of his marriage – without his books and Thomas’ scholarly debate to polish his skill, he now had a grasp of only common phrases. Perhaps d’Artagnan might lend him the use of his library whilst they were here. It had been too long since he read for pleasure.

* * *

Porthos had pilfered a map from the library and was having d’Artagnan lead him through the topography of the area, with occasional asides from the others, when they heard a voice calling loudly for Athos.

Ponbras was in the courtyard, still ahorse, and clearly with no intent of dismounting. Athos went to him, d’Artagnan kept back on the steps of the chateau by Porthos’ arm when he made to follow. The three watched as Ponbras bent low in the saddle, exchanging rushed whispers with Athos and then shaking his head when Athos made a gesture towards the steps. D’Artagnan had the distinct feeling that he might be the subject of conversation but as neither man looked his way had nothing to prove his suspicions.

Athos stepped back and Ponbras turned his horse back out the gate, without even stopping to give the beast some water. Whatever was driving him was clearly urgent. Athos moved swiftly towards them, gesturing them all inside, and towards the relative privacy of the library.

“What did he want?” Porthos demanded as soon as the doors were closed. Aramis had crossed to the other side of the room to turn the lock on the far door and Athos waited until he was back with them before speaking.

“The Bishop sent a man to find Beaudoin on the road. He demanded the troop attend him at Tarbes immediately; Beaudoin sent Ponbras back to warn us that they might be gone for some days.”

“It’s forty miles to Tarbes.” D’Artagnan interjected. “Surely Ponbras does not intend to make the full journey tonight?”

Athos shook his head. “Beaudoin will make camp on the road just past Chateau d’Arlens; they will complete the journey in the morning. They have ridden sweeps all day, the horses are tired and there is no need to push them through the night.”

“Will we be riding to meet them?” Aramis asked, but Athos was already shaking his head.

“The Bishop’s message did not specify that the Comte de Castelmore must be amongst the party and so Beaudoin has decided to act as though we have not been invited. As it happens I agree with his decision. D’Artagnan has much to see to here and Tarbes is a viper-pit we do not need to involve ourselves with yet.”

“If Tarbes is so dangerous, why are we leaving Beaudoin and his men to meet the Bishop by themselves?” Porthos wanted to know.

“Because a musketeer employed on the King’s business is hardly worth more than the briefest attentions.” Athos explained. “This summons was a reminder of the pecking-order, nothing more. But a new Comte, untried, young, who might easily swayed with the promise of guidance or aide –” Athos left the sentence unfinished but Porthos caught his meaning. D’Artagnan would make an attempting target for subterfuge or even assassination – if someone was truly determined to see Castelmore pass back into the Crown’s hands.

This thought seemed to have just occurred to d’Artagnan as well for he had turned distinctly pale.

“The next few days will be fraught.” Athos cautioned. “The Bishop will call undoubtedly call for d’Artagnan to attend him and he must be suitably attired for the journey. You will need new clothes, a haircut, new tack for your horse – if all this can be procured in the time we have. I will teach you what I can and I’m sure Aramis and Porthos will help.” Both nodded, though they looked unsure as to what use they would be. “The good news is that with Beaudoin and his men gone there can be no difficulty with sleeping arrangements. As your friends, none could think it strange that you offered us such hospitality. That is,” he said, with a twist of his lips, “assuming that you will accept us in your house.”

“Of course I would.” D’Artagnan said. His look clearly said he thought Athos had run mad if he honestly believed d’Artagnan would leave his friends to sleep in the stables.

“Good.” Athos said decisively. “Then the first thing we need are baths. Tonight we are going to dine like gentlemen and d’Artagnan is going to learn how to survive a formal dinner.” D’Artagnan looked dubiously at the others. “We also need to find you a tailor.” Athos continued. “Where’s your steward?”

oOo

Baths were a luxury Porthos rarely got to indulge in. In Paris, at the garrison and at his rooms, the most he could usually hope for was a bucket of lukewarm water to wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. His last, true bath had been when he was courting Alice. She had asked her maid to fill the tub and then sat beside him in nothing but her chemise, drawing the washcloth through the water and over his skin. In the end they had ended spilling most of the water onto the floor when he had pulled her into the tub with him and by the time they had climbed out the water had been tepid and Porthos’ muscles were aching pleasantly.

Now, drifting in the scalding water, Porthos revelled in the feeling of his shoulders and back unwinding. Though he would never trade his life with the musketeers for a simpler existence, the long days in the saddle could be hard for any not raised to it. Aramis had gawped when d’Aratagnan’s valet had informed that there were baths enough for each of them. Even Athos had been surprised. A tub in a house of this size was not unusual but four was more than a little extreme. Still, the staff had barely blinked at being asked to prepare four separate baths. Though d’Artagnan had offered to share with Aramis and Porthos had been happy enough to use the water after – they were not, after all, so very dirty – Athos had insisted that each of them bathe separately and then dress in whatever clothes they had which were cleanest. The excess was almost unthinkable but Athos clearly had a plan and the expression on his face said he would not easily be gainsaid. The man had pulled d’Artagnan away to speak to the housekeeper almost immediately after and Porthos had been left standing in the hallway with Aramis as they waited for the baths to be prepared. When a servant had quietly approached them and offered them clean clothes from the late Comte’s dresser, Aramis had fled. Porthos had balked at the idea in turn and then hesitated, before agreeing that the man could place a shirt in each of their rooms. If the man managed to find clothing that would fit both himself and Aramis, Porthos would hail him as a miracle worker. And besides, there was no reason he had to _wear_ the shirt. It could simply be left lying on the bed. A fire had been built high in the grate – an effort to keep the water warm while Porthos bathed but the heat was becoming oppressive.

Levering himself from the water, Porthos wrapped the linen towel around his waist. A footman had tried to stay and attend him, no doubt intending to perform this duty for Porthos, but that idea had been nixed straight away. He was casting about for his pack and wondering which of his clothes were cleanest when the door opened with only a cursory knock and Athos stepped through.

Porthos stared at him, abruptly reminded that his friend was a Comte in his own right. It was not, so much, that he had forgotten this fact, but that in Paris, Athos was simply Athos. He was as sweat-soaked and muddy and bloodstained as the rest of him. Oh, his clothes had always been of slightly better quality but he dressed like a musketeer, _worked_ like a musketeer and Porthos had failed to reconcile what he knew of Athos’ heritage with the men who fought beside him. Here, in a well-appointed room with soft pillows, clean sheets and a long bright mirror that must have cost more than Porthos made in a year, Porthos was forcibly reminded that Athos was le Comte de la Fère. The man had obviously had someone cut his hair, his beard was trimmed and though he wore his uniform he had forgone the heavy, leather gloves he usually wore. It was the spill of long, white fingers from beneath the cuff of his sleeve that brought the message home. With almost no change in his clothes and little in his grooming habits, save for having brushed his hair, Athos suddenly looked like a nobleman.

Athos raised an eyebrow, and Porthos realised he was staring. With a grunt, he started to dress, leaving the proffered shirt where it lay on the bed.

“I mean to test d’Artagnan, tonight.” Athos said. “The Bishop is the Cardinal’s man; he will undoubtedly try to humiliate d’Artagnan when he meets him.”

“What good’ll that do?” Porthos wanted to know. “Make an enemy of the king’s musketeer and a Comte to boot?”

“My guess is he will try to portray himself as the benevolent patron, standing between d’Artagnan and those who would insult him. But the audience will undoubtedly be public, perhaps even a formal engagement –”

“Like the one you’ve arranged for tonight?”

“Quite. In the presence of other noblemen the Bishop need say nothing. For all they would call themselves Gentlemen, they would not hesitate to remind a farm-boy of his place. I doubt their ladies will be any kinder.” At Porthos’ frown, he continued. “If there is dancing, d’Artagnan will be expected to dance with everyone in the room. If they refuse him, all will know it is because of his birth, if they accept and he cannot perform the steps he will be ridiculed. A lady might even accept his hand for the dance and then complain to her friends that he did nothing but step on her feet. The gentlemen will make a point of seeking d’Artagnan’s opinion on horseflesh, economics, politics. Fortunately, a single evening is all he need grant them, the orders of the King and the demands of his estate being what they are. But that one evening could ruin him if he is not prepared.”

Porthos winced, guessing where this is going. “You’re not going to go easy on him. Are you?”

“No.” Athos sighed. “I have spoken to Aramis as well. He has agreed not to interfere.” The silent question as to whether Porthos would agree to the same hung in the air. Unhappy, Porthos nodded his consent.

“You’re not going to warn the whelp are you?”

“He must learn to control his emotions in company. He managed well enough against the taunts of LeBarge, but that was in the heat of the fight, when he had a sword and a purpose to distract him.” Athos pinched the bridge of his nose – a rare concession to anxiety. “I will be cruel, because others will be worse. I never intended to teach him this way. I thought we would have more time.”

“That is the folly of all men.” Aramis said. Porthos turned to see him standing in the doorway, having slipped in silently at some point during the conversation.

“When did you get here?” Porthos asked him.

“Only a moment ago; I was looking for him.” He motioned to Athos. “I trust he has explained his plan to you.” At Porthos’ grunt of assent he glared. “I will say yet again that I am consenting to this plan, only under protest. Porthos, bear witness.”

“I agree with Aramis.” Porthos said. “This is going to end badly.”

“Better I humiliate him in private,” Athos countered, “than he be paraded for a full before half of Gascony.”

Aramis crossed himself discretely. “Angels and saints defend us.” He muttered. “This is going to be a disaster.”


	6. Chapter 6

The meal, when it came, was excruciating. With hair clipped, and dressed, at Athos’ insistence, in his uncle’s clothes (too big for him and smelling slightly of cloves), d’Artagnan had been led to a table covered in fine white linen and tableware so fine he thought it might break if he touched it. Athos had not simply commandeered one of the smaller parlours, but the estate’s grand dining room. There were more knives and forks laid beside the plates than he thought one household could possibly possess; the wineglasses were gilded along the rim. D’Artagnan felt vaguely sick. His only comfort was that Porthos and Aramis looked equally out of their depth. They stood ramrod straight behind their chairs, as though called to attention on parade. Athos alone seemed as ease, allowing a footman to pull his seat away from the table, even as another did the same for d’Artagnan. He sat with a jerk, like a puppet suddenly cut loose from its strings, whilst Athos seemed simply to melt into place. Porthos followed d’Artagnan’s example, his weight shaking the glasses when he accidentally knocked the table. Aramis was perched on the edge of his chair as if expecting it to bite.

The food came in on great silver platters: sliced meats served with seasonal fruits, a heavy soup redolent with spices, a pie stuffed with fish, and eggs mixed with anchovies. By the second mouthful d’Artagnan was wishing fervently for Serge’s cooking. By the fifth he had downed a full cup of wine to chase away the onslaught of flavours.

Athos arched an appraising eyebrow from his end of the table. From d’Artagnan’s place at the head, he seemed so very far away. “Did your father ever deign to teach you manners?” He enquired mildly. D’Artagnan flushed and placed his glass back on the table. Aramis leaned over to fill it. D’Artagnan had been expecting the servants to attend them at the meal – that was what happened in grand houses wasn’t it? – but Athos had waved them away after they had finished serving.

“I’m sorry. This is just, well, a little overwhelming.”

“Yes.” Athos drawled and d’Artagnan stared at him, he had never heard Athos sound so derisive before. “I’m sure that for a farmhand, this must be quite _’overwhelming’_.” Hurt spiked in d’Artagnan’s chest but he pushed it down savagely.

“I am the son of a farmer; I was never a farmhand.” He told Athos calmly. “My father was a gentleman.”

“But not so much of one, as to be deemed worthy of your mother.” Athos countered. “I wonder how she took to it, sleeping on straw and cooking from a single pot in the evenings?”

D’Artagnan swallowed thickly and eyed the glass in Athos’ hand. How much had the man had to drink? He looked to Porthos but his friend refused to meet his eye; neither would Aramis.

When Athos appeared to be waiting for an answer, d’Artagnan forced out a reply. “My mother never had any complaints.”

“Quite.”

There was silence for a while. Aramis was studiously cutting his meat into smaller and smaller pieces, whist Porthos seemed intent on pushing the same bite of food round and round his plate.

“Tell me about the court.” Athos demanded suddenly. “You have just come from Paris, surely you must have news to tell us.”

D’Artagnan gaped. “Athos you’ve just come from Paris with me, you know as much as I.”

“Nothing to tell. That is disappointing. Still, you’re young, I am sure you have - _other matters_ \- on your mind.” The tone, the slight lift of the brow, had d’Artagnan’s mind flying to thoughts of Constance and then colouring in embarrassment. That can’t have been what Athos meant – though what he was doing asking d’Artagnan, of all people, to explain Paris to him, was a mystery. He reached for his glass, and succeeded in dragging his sleeve through the sauce on his plate. Swearing quietly, d’Artagnan attempted to assess the damage but the full, lace cuff of the shirt could not be saved. It was stained burgundy from where it had acted like a wick for the liquid, and there were crumbs of food stuck in the lace.

“Well,” Athos sighed, “I suppose it was too much to hope that what little noble blood there was within you might breed true. You’re no more a gentleman than you are a musketeer. Awarded both honours on nothing more than a royal whim and unable to acquit yourself in either sphere. You seduced a married woman, and that seduction left her in the gravest danger – a danger I might add, that you were incapable of quelling on your own. As ever, since you came to Paris, you relied on us to protect you, to erase your mistakes. Now we,” he gestured at Aramis and Porthos, “have once again been called upon to witness your failure. You cannot speak like a nobleman, dress like one, or even deport yourself like the lowliest of gentlemen. You shame your ancestors with your ignorance and your stupidity. Better that the King had handed these lands and the people over to one of his favourites, than leave _you_ responsible for their welfare.”

There was a crash and d’Artagnan distantly recognised that it was his chair which had fallen to the ground. Betrayal choked him and rage sat heavy in his breast. He looked desperately to Aramis, to Porthos, waiting for one of them to call Athos to order. But Porthos simply winced and that was all d’Artagnan needed as confirmation. They _agreed_ with him. Angry tears burned in his eyes. There was a yawning wound somewhere beneath his ribs and it felt as though salt was being poured into it. He would not shame himself by crying here; he was no boy to be brought to tears by the words of a man –

But not just a man. _Athos_. Athos whom he trusted, respected; Athos whom he looked to as a father, as a brother, as a friend. Porthos opened his mouth to speak, but d’Artagnan could not bear to hear more censure.

He turned and strode from the room, just shy of running. The door slammed in his wake and, breaking into a run, he hauled the front doors open, dashing across the courtyard and through the gate.

“Well,” Aramis said, eyeing Athos coolly. “That went quite well. Wouldn’t you say?”

Porthos downed his wine and Athos lay his head in his hands. The table was silent, save for the sound of Aramis joining Porthos in his drinking.

Outside, it began to rain.

* * *

D’Artagnan hauled himself into the branches of a tree. Night had fallen and rain-heavy clouds blocked the moon; he was forced to rely on instinct as he climbed, fingers digging into the rough bark and boots slipping as he tried to find a foothold. The thick canopy blocked the worst of the rain, but water still dripped through the leaves, catching on his upper lip as d’Artagnan finally managed to settle himself in the higher reaches, back braced against the thick trunk. He had discovered this tree only this morning, nestled against the outside of the chateau wall, its branches sweeping across the roof of the stables, like some noble lady bent across the cradle. The wind blew, shaking water from the leaves, and d’Artagnan tipped his head back, letting the moisture soak into his skin. His shirt was damp, his breaches too, and the fine velvet doublet Athos had forced him into was undoubtedly ruined. D’Artagnan couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He had thought himself secure with the musketeers. He knew his strengths, his skill; he knew these men considered him a brother. But to hear Athos deride him, to voice every dark thought which lay rooted in d’Artagnan’s head had cut deeper than any knife. And his friends had simply sat there; not one word had been offered in his defence.

Athos was right, he was no gentleman. A gentleman would have had a better answer than to fly from the room like a petulant child. There was the snap of branches and d’Artagnan started. Looking down, he could discern a deeper patch of darkness in the shadows of the tree, and as it began to climb, recognised the familiar bulk of Porthos.

Unsettled, d’Artagnan tried to see if any of the higher branches could support his weight. He had no wish for company, and the branch on which he rested was probably the last which could carry Porthos. But it was too dark. Those branches he could reach with his hands were too frail to bear him and he would not risk a fall of fifteen feet just to avoid a conversation. Perhaps he was growing up.

With a grunt, Porthos swung himself up next to d’Artagnan. He was fortune that the knot of branches were wide here, or else, in the dark, he would have risked plunging his foot into open air. Settling awkwardly, Porthos shuffled until he was pressed against d’Artagnan’s side. There was not enough room to afford each of them their own space.

“He didn’t mean it.”Porthos said gruffly, “You know that.”

D’Artagnan sucked in a breath, then another when it felt as though his throat were burning. “Athos never says what he doesn’t mean.”

Porthos sighed. “He had this fool idea to show you how cruel noblemen could be. Wanted you to learn what it was like when you were still with friends.” Porthos could not see the sour cant of d’Artagnan’s mouth in the darkness, but he read his silence easily enough. “ _We_ are _brothers_.” He said, wrapping a firm hand around d’Artagnan’s bicep. “We would die for you as easily as you would die for any of us.” He felt d’Artagnan shudder as he drew breath. Resting his forehead against the boy’s temple, Porthos did him the courtesy of pretending that the water streaking down d’Artagnan face was simply rain.

They stayed like that, pressed together in the boughs of the tree, until the rain stopped falling and moonlight slid between the leaves.

* * *

Audet, for all he might despise d’Artagnan, knew his business. As Aramis hauled a sodden Athos through the halls, there was not one servant in sight. Audet, himself, opened the doors to Athos’ chambers and helped turn down the bed whilst Aramis poured his drunken friend into it. He left just as silently as he had appeared, offering no word or look of censure, simply relieving Athos of the wine bottle he still clutched and vanishing from the room.

Aramis sighed, and then toed off his boots. Setting his jacket on a nearby chair, he slid onto the bed beside Athos. The man was mumbling with all the fervour of the inebriated and Aramis ran a soothing hand through his hair, more from habit than anything else. Athos shifted, instinctively, towards him, seeking cool skin against his brow. He was truly drunk and in almost record time, as well.

Rain beat against the window sill and Aramis wondered whether Porthos had succeeded in finding d’Artagnan. He owed the lad an apology; to seek his forgiveness. Athos had given his orders, and Aramis had followed them like a good soldier. But they were bad orders and d’Artagnan was suffering for them. Athos rarely misjudged situations involving his friends, but he seemed to have something of a blind spot when it came to d’Artagnan. It was evident to all with eyes that the whelp _worshipped_ him. It was Athos who, at last, taught him to control his temper in a fight; Athos who had challenged Treville for d’Artagnan’s right to be the musketeers champion (though Aramis was sure none of them were supposed to know about that one). D’Artagnan trusted each of them, but on more than one occasion Aramis had caught the boy looking at Athos as though the man had just hung the moon in the sky. These looks usually followed a bout of drinking, when what little guard d’Artagnan kept about him slipped, and he became warm and loose in the company of his friends. The rare times they had tipped him back into Madame Bonacieux’s arms in that condition, d’Artagnan had smiled at each of them, wide and innocent and so bright it hurt to look at; he had then proceeded to smack a sound kiss to Constance’s cheek, leaving her flushed red with affection and embarrassment, even as she escorted d’Artagnan back into the safety of the house.

Her loss had cut the boy cruelly but he had held his hands up against each of Porthos’ more _enthusiastic_ ideas on how to educate Monsieur Bonacieux on how to treat a lady. She had sent him away and to d’Artagnan that was the end of it. Constance had made her choice and he would respect it – even though any fool could see that it still pained him. The boy and Athos had an awful lot in common when one thought about it.

He could feel when Athos at last fell to dreaming, his body going limp in a way liquor never achieved and his breaths deepening. The bed was large enough to accommodate them easily but Aramis still curled towards his friend; hand pressed against Athos’ heart – taking comfort from the thrum of the blood beneath the skin.

* * *

The morning dawned dry, but grey. Thin light fell through the clouds in the sky and Porthos scowled as he paced the length of the terrace. Aramis was sat a little ways behind him, cleaning his weapons and watching. Porthos did not know why he was so unsettled. He had slept poorly after persuading d’Artagnan back inside. The mattress on his borrowed bed was stuffed with eiderdown and too soft for comfort. Porthos had felt as though he might sink through to the floor at any minute. In the end Porthos had pulled his blanket down onto the floor and slept there instead. He had seen Aramis slip from Athos’ chambers in the morning but Athos himself had yet to emerge. D’Artagnan had appeared only briefly to wish them good morning, before vanishing into his aunt’s chambers. Porthos had eschewed breakfast in favour of pacing.

Aramis waited out the silence. Porthos would talk when he was ready; there was no use in rushing him.

“Found him in a tree.” Porthos grunted, eventually, sitting down heavily on the low wall that framed the terrace. “Probably where he escaped to yesterday when we couldn’t find him.”

Aramis nodded. “I did wonder how his hands had gotten into such a state so soon after waking.”

“Boy’s reaching the end of his rope.” Porthos said softly, voice barely carrying over the distance between them. “It’s too much for him.”

“He’s grieving.” Aramis replied. “Between killing Gaudet and trying to earn his commission, he never did have much of a chance to do so in Paris. Now, he’s faced with a place he hasn’t seen since his father died and he hasn’t yet had the chance to even visit his grave. This is going to be hard for him.”

“His father’s not buried in Gascony.” Porthos said, apparently surprised Aramis was not aware of this detail. “He’s buried near Paris, in the churchyard closest to the inn.”

Aramis’ hands stilled against the butt of his pistol. That he had not known. He had assumed d’Artagnan had taken his father’s body back before returning to Paris, or had at least sent the casket to family. But then again, what family? By all accounts d’Artagnan was the last of his line – on both his mother’s and his father’s side. To what family could he have entrusted the burial?

“He sold his father’s horse to pay for the burial.” Porthos continued. “Got maybe half what the beast was worth; had to sell his father’s sword, too.”

Aramis looked up, startled. “Why, in God’s name? Surely he did not need coin that badly.”

Porthos shrugged. “Had no one he could trust to take horse back to the farm – whoever he sent would have just kept his coin and kept his horse and he never would have seen them again. From what he said, sounds like he sent back what money he could for the purchase of another. Having been cheated on the horse he needed to find the extra coin somehow.”

“He should have just returned home.” Aramis said, and instantly felt ashamed.

“I think he knows that, too.” Porthos said. “He wanted vengeance but he owed his father more than to be buried amongst strangers, in a place where no one will tend to his grave. He’s grieving, but he’s guilty too and it’s eating him.”

Aramis sighed. He wondered how much d’Artagnan hid from them, that he had never picked up on such internal conflict. Perhaps the boy simply did not think of it too often. Or perhaps he was better at hiding from them than Aramis wanted to believe.

A door swung open behind them, the wood groaning softly. Athos stepped out, carrying a plate from the kitchens: warm bread and soft, sweet cheese. His hair was still wet and dripping gently against the leather of his jacket. “Where is d’Artagnan?”

“With his aunt.” Aramis said.

“No. I just enquired after the lady; her maid is the only one with her. Did he leave again?”

Porthos shook his head. “Not that I know of. Little bugger might have though – he’s still a little sore about last night.”

Athos winced. “He had to learn.”

“It was a useless lesson.” Aramis snapped. “What did he learn except that his friends would lie to hurt him? What wisdom did he take away from this?” His only answer was a sigh. An upstairs window banged open and a maid snapped a foot-rug out the window, to shake away the dust. Male voices drifted out behind her; one of them was recognisably d’Artagnan’s.

“So, he’s in the house at least.” Porthos said, popping a bite of cheese between his lips. The waxy rind slid against his teeth and his tongue chased the flavour.

“I should speak with him.” Athos said, brushing his gloves clean of crumbs. “Have you plans for the morning?”

“Training, most likely.” Aramis replied. “We’ll use the gardens, since no one else seems to be doing so. Keep out of the way.”

“Then I will find you, when we are finished.” Athos said, and left them.

“Come on.” Porthos said, tapping Aramis’ knee. “Hand to hand, and then swords.”

* * *

It was d’Artagnan’s valet who opened the door when Athos knocked. The man had the perfectly blank face of a long-time servant and if he knew of Athos’ attempt to drown himself the night before, he gave no sign of it.

D’Artagnan was stood before a mirror, arms akimbo as a man who could only be a tailor pinned and twitched his clothing into place. The jacket, trousers and shirt had all clearly belonged to the late Comte. The colours were not d’Artagnan’s best, though they would have suited a man whose hair had started to grey and whose skin had never laboured beneath the sun. Fortunately, though the man must have begun to run fat with age, he had obviously been of d’Artagnan’s height. The clothes were all too wide and were frillier than was suitable for a young man, but clothing such as this could be more easily altered at short notice than new garments could be made.

Catching Athos’ eye in the mirror, d’Artagnan motioned to his valet. “Can – come back in five minutes.” He cut himself off from asking the question before it had formed, and managed to make the request sound like an instruction. As the valet and the tailor made their way from the room, Athos began to wonder whether he perhaps he had approached this situation in the wrong way. D’Artagnan would never be comfortable in the traditional role of the noble – he was far more accustomed to taking orders than to giving them. The closest he could have ever come were the farmhands his father hired – boys his own age, to whom he would have spoken like a peer, not a superior.

D’Artagnan was fiddling with his cuffs, trying to resettle the jacket so it rested easily on his shoulders. The excess fripparies had already been pared from the front, a single line of burnished satin running the length of the seam instead. Watching Constance work had at least given the boy some sense of current fashions.

“I owe you an apology.” Athos said. “My behaviour last night was intended to provoke, it was not sincere.”

“It was a test.” D’Artagnan waited for Athos’ nod. “I failed.”

Athos chose his words carefully. “You reacted with less anger than I expected.”

“But not the way you would have reacted.”

Athos sighed and moved forward. He stopped just behind d’Artagnan’s right shoulder, holding the boy’s gaze in the mirror. “I was subjected to such taunts and taught to deliver them in turn from a young age. Though I never cared for such games, I was accustomed to them. You must never let it show that their words have any meaning for you.” He did not specify who ‘they’ were. “A single moment of weakness and they will use it to pry apart your armour until they hit flesh.”

D’Artagnan’s gaze slid away and Athos watched his throat bob as he swallowed. “I know. But I think we both know trying to train me to be a Comte is a waste of time.”

Athos had his hands wrapped around d’Artagnan’s biceps before he was conscious of moving. “You are more worthy of that name that half the men in France who bear it.” He hissed. D’Artagnan was rigid in his grasp, eyes dropping from Athos’ gaze and then up again. The boy licked his lips.

“Athos –” A knock at the door interrupted him. With a sigh he stepped back out of Athos’ hold, swallowing heavily. “Come in.”

The tailor re-entered, fabric still draped over his arms and pins in hand. Athos took a seat inside d’Artagnan’s line of sight as the fitting recommenced.

“Your nearest neighbour is the Viscomte d’Arlens.” Athos said. “Unpopular, because of his Huguenot sympathies, and always eager for a friend who might seem to have the King’s ear. Let me tell you how to use that.”

* * *

The day passed in a whirlwind of lessons, practice and linen. D’Artagnan was sure he had never seen so many clothes in his life – even the Queen’s wardrobe seemed more limited. He knew it was practice for more senior servants to receive some of their master’s lesser garments when he died and d’Artagnan wondered what Audet and his valet, whom he had finally learned was named Pinault, thought of him appropriating this clothing for himself.

Still, there was no time to worry too deeply over this; after instructing him throughout the morning on the nobility of the region, Athos had insisted they start the next lesson: dancing. The only dances d’Artagnan knew were the ones danced at country fairs, though his looks and skill had never left him short of partners.

One of the groundsmen, who proved to be a passable flautist, was press-ganged into providing their musical accompaniment. Madame Salbert was generous enough to provide the female company. D’Artagnan had, at first, been rather apprehensive at attempting to lead his housekeeper in a dance. But she had surprised them all by immediately plucking Aramis’ hand from the air and pulling him into a lively Canarie that left Aramis laughing and blushing mildly. He tipped his hat to her in amused deference once she released him, looking inordinately pleased with the attention.

They started with the _Basse dance_ and d’Artagnan immediately recognised it as one he had seen the court ladies dancing at one of the Queen’s smaller soirées – which had, for reasons unclear, required an escort of musketeers. Though the first half hour was a painful fumble of missed steps and bruised toes – Athos’ hands bearing down on his shoulders and pushing his hips in the right direction – the learning process became easier once d’Artagnan decided to treat it, not as a lesson in dancing, but as simply another form of combat.

Memorisation came easily to him then. His housekeeper was not a surrogate for a court lady but for a musketeer. These were not the steps of a dance but of a duel. Step here and make your opponent lean this way, step there and deflect his blow again. He simply had to remember to bow at beginning and end and not crush his partner’s fingers in his excitement.

* * *

Aramis watched the lesson with amusement. The boy was an impressive dancer, light on his feet, and naturally charming. His smile flashed white with every turn of the dance and he even stopped to share a wink with Porthos when Madame Salbert declared loudly that any lady would be lucky to share a dance with her young master.

Athos had not danced, though Aramis did not doubt he had the skill. The man had stood calling instructions from the sidelines, occasionally repositioning d’Artagnan bodily, when the boy didn’t seem to quite grasp the directions. All in all, it had been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, and Porthos had crowned it all by sweeping d’Artagnan’s housekeeper into a rousing gavotte that spun the length and breadth of the room. Porthos was so large that the poor woman had quite literally been swept off her feet in places, but she had laughed with easy merriment and patted Porthos warmly on the cheek when he set her down again. Aramis had bowed to her as he would any court lady and even Athos had joined the joke, offering her his arm to escort her to her next duties, as regal as any prince. She had declined with grace, shaking her head at musketeers and their flirtations.

She took the groundsman with her as she left and d’Artagnan took advantage of their absence to collapse bodily to the floor, panting slightly as he sprawled himself supine across the carpet.

“You will do fine.” Athos told him, grasping him by the forearm to pull him to his feet. “You know the three most popular dances and as you will not be attending any balls for a while, more should not be required of you. You will acquit yourself well at any smaller gatherings.”

D’Artagnan smiled his relief, leaning his weight against Porthos’ shoulder now that he had been rudely lifted from the floor. “Let’s go out, tonight.” D’Artagnan said. “There’s got to be a good inn somewhere nearby. Porthos can play someone new at cards and Aramis can find a barmaid he hasn’t flirted with.” He was smiling, but there was a tension around his eyes that told Athos he was keen to avoid another dinner like last night’s.

“I’m up for that.” Porthos said, clapping d’Artagnan firmly on the shoulder. “But – you’re paying.”

D’Artagnan laughed, head tipped back as he grinned. “Fair enough, but then I get to choose where we go.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: friends punching friends

The Boot and Slipper was an inn d’Artagnan had only ventured to once whilst resident in Gascony. Located on the road to Castelnavet, it had been a good two hours walk from his father’s farm in Lupiac but from Castelmore it was an easy walk and a shorter ride. It was a well-kept house with warm light and good food. The patrons were friendly and lost a few coins happily enough to Porthos in a game of cards, without turning the mood sour.

D’Artagnan was placed in the odd position of suddenly being the most popular member of the company. News travelled quickly in small communities and the young musketeer with a gold ring on his finger was easily identified. Aramis was dealt a light blow to the ego when the barmaid who brought them their drinks, lavished most of her attentions on _d’Artagnan_ rather than on him. Porthos laughed and nudged the boy jovially in the ribs as the girl left with an extra swing in her hips. D’Artagnan was blushing to the roots of his hair and trying rather valiantly to hide in his cup. Athos bore witness to the exchange with quiet amusement.

The atmosphere was warm and light; and as d’Artagnan’s presence amongst them lost its novelty, the stares of the other patrons grew less. D’Artagnan began to relax by degrees, laughing as Aramis attempted to charm the mistress of the establishment with an easy smile and gentle flattery. Old enough to be his grandmother, the woman accepted Aramis’ praise with easy mockery, gnarled hands fisted on her hips as Aramis proved he’d missed his calling as a poet. His efforts were rewarded with a cuff round the ear – and a small cake, still warm from the kitchen. Aramis raised his prize in smug victory to his friends, before being forced to raise the morsel out of Porthos’ reach when he made to steal a bite.

D’Artagnan leant back easily from the table, one foot braced against the leg of Porthos’ chair, his own tipped back on its hind legs. It brought his face close to Athos’ and they eyeballed one another with mock severity before d’Artagnan lost his composure and burst out laughing. The sound drew furtive gazes from across the room, but he didn’t seem to notice. Athos noticed a number of lips turn up in a smile at the sight of the young Comte laughing and eating with his friends – none of whom were known to be anything but simple soldiers. Whatever the late Comte’s habits, Athos doubted they included eating in a farmer’s tavern.

Trouble came when a young man, roughly d’Artagnan’s age, pushed open the door. Hushed voices rippled out across the room as men caught sight of him. For a moment it seemed as though the boy might simply take his seat and leave the others to their gossip, but then one of the men at the table closest to him laughed at something another had said and the boy’s spine went taught and stiff. Marching across the room, the young man came to stand at the edge of their table, dark eyes sweeping across the swords at their hips and the leather pauldrons on their shoulders. He faltered, and then visibly drew himself up to his full height – not quite as impressive as he might have hoped – and stared down his nose at d’Artagnan. With a glance at Athos, d’Artagnan let his chair slide back down onto all fours, his boots hitting the ground with a soft stirring of dirt.

“You are the new Comte?” The young man demanded and his tone was ruder even than the question had been. He did not give d’Artagnan time to speak. “I am Édouard Martin.” He said the name as thought it should hold some special meaning. Porthos visibly bristled, displeasure rumbling in his throat, but whether through stupidity or bravery the stranger ignored him.

“Pleased to meet you.” D’Artagnan said at last, holding out his hand for Édouard to shake. It was perhaps not the most proper greeting for a Comte to one of his tenants, but as d’Artagnan had equally not done the boy the courtesy of rising to meet him, Athos let it pass. He also felt that d’Artagnan might have kept his seat quite deliberately.

Édouard stared at d’Artagnan’s palm at though he had been offered poison. He kept starting until d’Artagnan eventually let his hand fall back to his side. The room was silent, all eyes of them, and the tension was steadily climbing. Aramis shifted, ever so slightly, crossed arms in easy reach of his pistol.

“My mother is Marie Martin.” Édouard continued, voice rising shrilly.

D’Artagnan pushed to his feet with a sigh, though he kept his hands away from his weapons. The boy was quite clearly unarmed and he had not wish to start a fight he would be forced to end in a bloody fashion. “Those names mean nothing to me.” He told Édouard, calmly. “Was there a grievance you had raised with my uncle? A dispute perhaps he could not arbitrate before he died? If that is the case, then I would welcome you at the Chateau tomorrow, so you can explain the matter to me.”

It was a sensible answer; one Athos himself had primed d’Artagnan to give, should the occasion call for it. There would naturally have been matters of rent or property left to whither since the old Comte death’s; d’Artagnan would have to be prepared to deal with these sooner or later.

“Explain to _you_ , my grievance?” Édouard demanded. Anger had brought two spots of colour to his cheeks and it was clear he would have said more but one of the men at a nearby table, stood and clapped a hand against his arm.

“Okay, lad. Enough. Outside.”

Édouard sputtered in indignation but the old farmer was too strong for him. With a short bow to d’Artagnan, the man hauled Édouard out by his waist – as if the boy was nothing more than a sheep bought at market.

There was a rush of voices as the door closed behind him and then quiet fell again as all stared at d’Artagnan, who was still on his feet. Reaching into his purse the boy dropped a handful of coins on the table – enough to pay for the food and the wine and leave a generous gratuity besides – before draining his glass.

“I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Porthos was still picking at the last of his meal but he pushed his plate back easily and stood as well. Aramis with a resigned look in Athos’ direction followed suit. Fortunately, the stables were located at the back of the house and the landlady was happy enough to let them out through the kitchens, to avoid any unpleasantness outside. By the time they had reached the front of the inn Édouard and the old farmer had disappeared. D’Artagnan swung into the saddle and Athos could see his face pinched tight in the torchlight. The evening had been going so well and now it seemed like all the restorative properties of food and company and wine had been washed away.

They rode back in near silence, Porthos and Aramis exchanging the occasional remark, too low for Athos to make out what was being said. It was not so late when they reached the chateau for Athos to truly wish to retire and judging by the way Aramis shifted his weight reluctantly as they stood in the entryway, he felt the same. Footmen had relieved them of cloaks, hats and gloves as soon as they stepped inside and Athos was left feeling curiously naked.

“Would anyone like to join me in a game of dice?” He offered. “The smallest salon looked quite comfortable, and I am not yet ready to retire.”

Dice were not Athos’ distraction of choice, but as a rule, they never played for money between them when it came to dice. Cards were another matter – for Porthos loved to cheat and it was something of a game to try and catch him in the act – but in dice there was no skill and it took some of the fun from betting. Besides, he had a suspicion that Aramis’ pride, at least, was too raw to take well to losing coin tonight – even if it was too a friend.

Porthos seemed to follow his reasoning for he nodded and herded Aramis and d’Artagnan down the hallway. A quick detour to secure a fine bottle of brandy, and a moment’s pause while d’Artagnan knelt to light a fire in the hearth, saw them seated comfortably in soft, tall-backed chairs, arrayed in a rough circle by the fire. Porthos found a small table in the corner of the room and lifted it easily over the others’ heads to place it in the middle of the ring. Pewter glasses – which appeared to be acting as some kind of decoration by the windowsill – were repurposed for dice cups, no doubt to the horror of d’Artagnan’s ancestors.

They resorted to a simple game of Under-Over, none of them in possession of enough energy to make a decent show of it at Liar’s Dice. D’Artagnan took the first two hands, before Porthos beat him with a nine over a seven. Athos won the next before losing four in a row to Aramis, who struck a winning streak. They played until the bottle was half-gone and d’Artagnan was yawning too hard to throw his dice properly. Taking pity on him, Aramis called a halt, chivying his young friend up the stairs as Porthos banked the fire.

* * *

The hour was late enough to be considered early, but d’Artagnan had excused himself after their first hour of dicing to find Audet and send the staff to their rest. He had no wish to return to his room, only to find someone waiting and poised to help him undress. That had been an unpleasant discovery last night and he had been sharper than he had meant to be in dismissing Pinault, but the valet’s attempts to unlace his shirt – expecting d’Artagnan to stand there like a child’s doll during dress-up – had unnerved him and he had sent the man away with a flea in his ear.

Now flopping down onto the mattress, d’Artagnan stared at the canopied ceiling of the bed and wondered just what had become of his life. He was startled upright when the door opened again and Aramis slipped inside. D’Artagnan had expected the other man to seek his own rest and was surprised when Aramis made a vague gesture at the bed, as though asking if he could sit down. D’Artagnan nodded his consent, pulling his legs over the side so his feet were braced on the floor again; he should have removed his boots before putting them on the sheets he thought ruefully.

Aramis took a seat beside him, a familiar warm weight at his side and d’Artagnan, in a rare show of patience, waited for him to start talking.

“Tomorrow is Sunday.” Aramis said. “I doubt Athos has thought of it, but it may well be that your presence is expected at Mass. I, myself, will be going, and I would be more than happy to accompany you.”

D’Artagnan was surprised and pleased by the offer. Then, remembered with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t been to confession. He said as much to Aramis.

“The abbé will be hearing confession in the two hours before the Mass.” Aramis told him. “We can go together, if you like.”

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan said and meant it. “Will Porthos join us?”

“He might.” Aramis conceded. “Athos as you know, no longer worships.”

D’Artagnan privately thought that Confession might to Athos good – relieve him of some of his guilt – but even as a friend, it was not his place to say.

“I thought, perhaps, after Mass, we might ride to Lupiac.” Aramis said. “We could visit your mother’s grave.” D’Artagnan felt his throat grow tight and shook his head. Aramis mistook his meaning. “It is a day of Grace, d’Artagnan. God will not condemn you for journeying with such a purpose.”

A wealth of feeling overcame d’Artagnan and he hugged Aramis abruptly, not caring if he embarrassed himself with the surfeit of emotion. After a startled pause, Aramis hugged him just as warmly. When at last d’Artagnan drew back Aramis could see that the boy’s eyes were bright.

“I used to go every Sunday.” D’Artagnan said. “Since I came to Paris I have offered rosaries in her name but –”

“But it is not the same as paying respects to the dead, yourself.” Aramis finished the sentence for him. He knew the feeling. After Savoy he could not bring himself to visit the graves of his fallen friends for fear that he would lie down beside them and not get up again. He had prayed, daily, for God to show mercy to their souls but the beginnings of peace had not been achieved until the day Porthos had prised him from his rooms and taken him to pray by the row of wooden crosses. “You needn’t follow our example quite so closely,” Aramis said gently, keeping his side pressed against d’Artagnan’s. “It does no good to swallow grief. In consumes us, eventually.”

“Like Athos.” D’Artagnan said. _Like me_ , Aramis thought. “Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, “Is everything alright?”

Aramis inspected the profile of d’Artagnans’ face. The boy look – resigned. As though expecting some blame to fall at his door, even if he was ignorant of his offence. So his behaviour had not gone unnoticed then; Aramis felt ashamed.

“All will be well.” He promised, aware he was not answering d’Artagnan’s question. “And you will soon have greater things to worry about than the ill-temperaments of your friends.”

It had been the wrong thing to say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” d’Artagnan demanded. He was on his feet, the soft companionship of the last moments fading into darkness.

“Nothing.” Aramis said, hands held out in placation. “But you are the Comte de Castelmore, now. There will be many demands on your time – too many perhaps for you to stay with the musketeers.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I am not doubting your skill.” Aramis assured him, “Nor your commitment. But the running of an estate is no easy task; it requires time, attention – more than can easily be spared while you serve the king.”

“There are other noblemen in the regiment –”

“Younger sons. Men with money and titles but no lands and no responsibility. No one suffers from their absence.”

D’Artagnan was heaving with anger; Aramis wondered with not a little concern if the boy intended to strike him. “La Fère manages without Athos.”

“La Fère perishes in his absence, you saw that. Orchards left to rot, a village falling to ruin. Is that what you want to happen here? Stay in Gascony, d’Artagnan. Look after your people and your land; bring your father’s body back for burial.”

“Leave the musketeers? Leave my friends?”

“We would still be your friends, d’Artagnan.”

“Oh I doubt that.”

“Then the fault is yours, not mine.”

D’Artagnan simply snarled in answer. Aramis moved toward the door, disinclined to pursue the argument further. “I spoke as a friend, d’Artagnan, whether you wish to accept that or not, and I will remain your friend – whatever you decide. But you should think very carefully as to whether it is honour you satisfy by remaining with the musketeers, or pride.”

He closed the door softly behind him, leaving d’Artagnan to his frustration and his rage.

* * *

Porthos thought the ground might freeze as they walked to Mass, so cool was the air between Aramis and d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan ignored Aramis’ greeting, was barely civil to Porthos and scowled at his feet the whole way to the church. When they reached the line for the confessional, d’Artagnan looked pointedly at Aramis, offering a twirl of his hand which clearly said:  _you first_ .

Aramis stepped forward as though he might whisper in d’Artagnan’s ear, but he was brushed aside. With a sigh, Aramis took his place in the queue. D’Artagnan strode away, disappearing around the corner of the church.

“You going to tell me what all that’s about?” Porthos asked, keeping his voice low as two more villagers joined the line.

“A minor disagreement over how best to acquit one’s duty.”

“Meaning?”

But Aramis only shook his head, casting a meaningful glances at the many wagging ears around them. “Later then.” Porthos told him. “But I want to know.”

Aramis shrugged and Porthos left him, finding himself a seat in the back pew. D’Artagnan would be expected to sit at the front, in the chair bearing the Castelmore crest, but Porthos had no desire to put himself on such display. He was rarely one for church, and even less rarely took communion; he didn’t want it to be obvious that he remained seated while everyone else filed up to altar. He saw d’Artagnan return from wherever he’d been, just as Aramis stepped out of the confessional. They executed a peculiar dance around one another, and somehow d’Artagnan ended up jumping the queue entirely, slipping into the confessional that Aramis had just vacated.

When Aramis came to sit beside him, Porthos could see that he was disquieted and as his friend bowed his head in prayer he couldn’t help but think that it might be time that he and Athos had a word with Aramis about whatever was bothering him. Mostly him, as Aramis didn’t always respond well to Athos’ interference, but someone had to say something.

* * *

The Mass was long, and Porthos had never mastered enough Latin to follow the service. He stood when others stood and knelt when they knelt. He didn’t take communion and only half the prayers were familiar to him. D’Artagnan acquitted himself admirably. Porthos had never known the boy to be particularly devout, but he clearly knew the order of service and was pensive enough throughout the proceedings to lend himself a solemn air.

When the Mass ended and the congregation filed out into the weak autumn sunlight, d’Artagnan made a point of striding ahead of his friends. Porthos made to catch up with, but Aramis caught his arm and shook his head, keeping a leisurely pace and d’Artagnan drew further and further away from them.

“When we get back.” Porthos growled. “You’re going to explain this to me, and then I’m going to get the whelp to tell me his side of the story and you’re going to settle this.”

Aramis looked scornful but, as they were overtaken by a chattering group of women from the village, bit down on his answer.

D’Artagnan had clearly given orders for his horse to be ready and saddled upon his return because as Porthos neared the gate he was forced to jump aside. D’Artagnan practically flew down the road, his horse’s hooves eating up the ground beneath him. There was the sound of hurried footsteps and then Athos spilled out of the gate, staring after d’Artagnan in amazement.

“Where in God's name is he going?”

“No idea.” Porthos said. “What does Aramis think?”

Aramis looked distinctly uncomfortable, and not a little guilty. “He’s gone to Lupiac; to visit his mother’s grave.”

The answer brought Athos up short and he swore, softly. “I’ll follow him.” He said. “Keep yourselves out of trouble until I get back.”

Porthos waited until Athos had saddled his mount and set after d’Artagnan, before he collared Aramis with one hand and dragged him through the house and to the far end of the formal gardens. No one would disturb them there – the staff having been given the day to rest – and Porthos wanted no witnesses to this conversation.

“Right,” he said. “Start talking.”

* * *

The graveyard at Lupiac was small and crowded. If ever the graves had been laid in neat rows, time and sloppy groundsmanship, had erased them. Simple wooden crosses, and more elaborate markers of stone, were clustered in rough groups – with the odd outliers scattered at the edges. Athos found d’Artagnan knelt in the farthest corner, by the damp stone wall covered with moss and ivy. In the shadow of a fading tree, where the ground was hard and thin and dry, Francoise d’Artagnan had been laid to rest.

Her son wept openly as he offered a prayer to the Virgin, knees caked with the same dry dirt his mother was buried in. Athos respectfully kept his distance.

He forgot, sometimes, that he was not the only one who had known the loss of a beloved family member. He, at least, had been spared the sight of his brother’s death, if not the discovery. D’Artagnan had witnessed both his parent’s pass into God’s arms. The wind was still and the air cool with the first hint of winter. Athos breathed deeply and was overcome by the scent of grass and earth. At least there were no forget-me-nots.

A scuffing of the ground signalled d’Artagnan’s approach. He did not seem surprised to see Athos there, but his eyes were bright and red-rimmed. He accepted Athos’ hand to his shoulder and looked back over his shoulder at his mother’s grave.

“Do you wish to stay?” Athos asked gently. “We have plenty of time; you need not leave if you’re not ready.”

“I don’t know what else I would say.”

“Sometimes nothing more needs to be said.”

D’Artagnan nodded and made his way back across the graveyard. He sank down into a tailor’s seat and Athos turned away. The boy deserved his privacy.

* * *

Porthos’ fist connected with a crack against Aramis’ face. There was a moment’s numbness and then Aramis’ jaw burst with pain. Porthos had pulled the punch, though; Aramis hadn’t even stumbled with the blow.

“I can’t believe you said that to him.” Porthos’ eyes were bright and hard with anger; his chest was heaving and Aramis knew that Porthos was struggling with the desire to hit him again.

“I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t true.”

“That’s a bloody lie, and you know it. D’Artagnan was born to be a musketeer and there you go to tell him to pack it in; to just give up? Why? Because you’re angry it was him instead of you?”

“You think I want this?” Aramis demanded. “You think I want perfume, and fripperies, and a hundred people asking each day, if they can lick my boots clean? If you honestly believe that, my friend, you don’t know me at all.”

“Maybe I don’t.” Porthos challenged. “I certainly didn’t think you’d be the kind of man who’d try to drive his friends away out of jealousy.”

“It’s _not_ jealousy.” Aramis said, angrily.

“Then what?” Porthos cried. “What is it Aramis? And don’t give me that horse shit about trying to protect d’Artagnan’s inheritance. If you cared so much about the people of Castelmore, you would have tried to make Athos stay in La Fère.” Aramis ground his teeth, unwilling to concede the truth of that accusation. “You are going to tell me why you are so determined to see d’Artagnan leave. And by God, you had better have a good reason.”

“Because he’s better than this.” Aramis snapped, and then slammed his jaw shut in horror.

Porthos stared at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Aramis tried to bite his lip against the words but the floodgates had opened and he couldn’t contain them. “He deserves better than to be a musketeer.” Aramis said, “He deserves better than the life of a soldier: cold beds, meagre pay, the promise of death at the end of the sword _every, single day_. He is _le Comte de Castelmore_ – he should go to court and find a wife; have an heir and a family and a _life_. And he _won’t_. His vision is so clouded with thoughts of loyalty that he won’t display some common sense. He should take everything being offered and not look back.”

“That is d’Artagnan’s choice.” Porthos yelled at him, grasping Aramis by the shoulders and shaking him. “If he stays or if he goes, that’s his decision. We don’t get to try and make it for him.”

“And what if he goes?” Aramis snarled. “What then? What if, after years of having him beside us, he just walks away? What happens to us then? Huh? What then?”

He sagged and Porthos caught him. Aramis let his head drop to Porthos’ shoulder and felt all the fight go out of him. D’Artagnan would leave, there was no escaping that. Whilst the life of a soldier might appeal to a young man with fire in his blood, he would grow older. And with age would come the realisation that he could have an easy life. He would return to Gascony and Aramis could see him, even now, a woman at his side and children at his feet; Porthos would follow d’Artagnan into matrimony and Athos would drink himself to death. Aramis would be left all alone – the last Inseparable in the regiment: separated.

“You assume we’re all going to live long enough to see him leave.” Porthos said, arms tight around Aramis’ waist. “You ever think that maybe we might be dead before that day?”

“No. Not you.” Aramis protested. “Not Athos. God can’t have you yet.” It was almost blasphemous, but Aramis could stir up no remorse for the sentiment. Whilst there was breath in his body he would defend his friends. No blade would take them while he lived.

“Alright.” Porthos agreed. “Not yet. But you know d’Artagnan’s not going anywhere?” He added after a moment. “Kid would have given his left arm to be a musketeer, he’s not about to throw that all away for a title he never asked for in the first place.”

Aramis wanted to believe him, but fear was a hollow ache beneath his sternum and it wouldn’t go away.

“Come on.” Porthos said, tipping Aramis back upright. “I think we both need some wine. And then you need to figure out what you’re going to say to the whelp when he gets back.”

Aramis grunted his agreement and let himself be led. Maybe Porthos could explain things to d’Artagnan; he wasn’t sure he had the strength to say everything a second time.


	8. Chapter 8

Night had already fallen by the time d’Artagnan and Athos returned to the chateau. Aramis had procured a cold supper from the kitchens and had settled in to wait in the same parlour where they had diced the night before. Porthos was with him, taking advantage of the wealth of candlelight to read a book borrowed from the library. On any other night Aramis might have teased his friend about his choice of literature – a rather dry tome on geography – but he still felt scraped and raw from their earlier confrontation. He had been expecting d’Artagnan’s return some time after lunch, and had braced himself to deliver an apology and an explanation. When the hour came and went with no sign of Athos or d’Artagnan, Aramis had felt his nerve wavering. Though he could now concede that he may have spoken in error, he could not fully banish the thought that he had also been right: that d’Artagnan let his pride lead him too easily and that it would prove his undoing. He knew the thoughts were uncharitable – that d’Artagnan’s pride was more a mark of youth than of vice (a claim Aramis could not level at his own failings) – but still, the thoughts sat heavy in his heart, unwilling to be dislodged so easily.

The door creaked open and Athos stepped inside. His hair was damp with sweat and he looked tired.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked.

“He chose to retire.” Athos said, gratefully accepting the cup of wine Porthos passed to him. “Today was hard for him.”

Aramis winced in sympathy. At length Athos continued. “He insisted on visiting his father’s property.”

Porthos swore and Aramis muttered an oath. It was only logical he supposed; the boy could hardly pass so close to his old home without wishing to see it, but that was a visit they should have all made together. The sight must have been unbearable for d’Artagnan.

“Is he ok?” He pressed, when it seemed like Athos would say nothing more.

“The place is nothing more than a shell.” Athos said. “The fire took everything. The fields are worse – there has been no one to tend them. Three of the hands were killed by LeBarge and the others fled, taking employment elsewhere when it was clear there would be no money to restore the farm.”

Porthos shook his head in disgust. “That man was a monster.”

“Well he’s dead now.” Aramis said, with satisfaction. “And may the Devil keep him.”

Porthos muttered his agreement and then turned to press some cold meats and bread on Athos. The man looked ready to refuse them, but in the end relented. “LeBarge was particularly vicious with the d’Artagnan property. He razed the house. There is nothing left. No keepsakes, no memories.”

“So now he has nothing.” Porthos said.

Aramis wiped a tired hand across his face. “Was there anything that would be particularly missed?”

“He didn’t say.” Athos murmured. “Undoubtedly there was, though.”

Aramis closed his eyes and let his head tip back against the seat. What a horror it must be, to turn a corner in a road and see the burned out shell of a childhood home rising like some skeletal beast before you.

“Should one of us be with him?” Porthos suggested.

Athos shook his head. “He is hardly a child, to be cosseted in his sleep when he has uneasy dreams. I doubt he would want an audience, in any case.”

“We’re not an audience.”

“One of us should be with him.” Aramis agreed, remembering the strange malaise that had overtaken Athos those nights after La Fère, when the man had looked as though he were searching for ghosts in every corner and would not go to his rest until alcohol left him blank and dazed. “He won’t want to see me.” He added, when Athos looked at him expectantly. An eyebrow rose in answer and Aramis realised that d’Artagnan must not have told Athos what had passed between them.

“I’ll go.” Porthos said, getting to his feet. “If he doesn’t want to see me: fine. But I’m giving him the option.”

“Something has happened.” Athos said once Porthos had left them. “Will you tell me what it is?”

Aramis shook his head and Athos, though clearly disapproving, didn’t press for more of an answer.

* * *

There was no answer when Porthos knocked on d’Artagnan’s door. The hallway was silent, though a chink of light was visible beneath the crack of the Comte’s chambers. The aunt was still awake then, or else the maid was sitting in attendance. Porthos had not seen the lady since that first morning, but the doctor had been twice and since Aramis had confiscated the poppy tea, the house had been devoid of screams. Pushing open d’Artagnan’s door softly, Porthos made every effort to muffle his footsteps. If the lad was already asleep he would not disturb him but the air had that particular sense of quiet that suggested the room’s owner was trying to will himself to stillness, if not to sleep.

There was no light to be had and Porthos regretted not bringing a candle. With the curtains pulled tightly across the widows, not even moonlight gave aid to see by, and Porthos struggled to make out the form of bed or chair in the darkness.

“If you’re coming in, shut the door.” D’Artagnan said, he voice drifting from the bed. There was a rustle of cloth and then the creak of the frame as d’Artagnan rolled onto his side, back to the door. Porthos did as he was bid and crossed the room softly. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could see the slender lines of d’Artagnan’s body curled up on the mattress. The boy hadn’t bothered remove his clothes, though Porthos did trip over his boots on his way to the bed.

Sliding onto the mattress behind him, Porthos curled a companionable hand across d’Artagnan’s shoulder. He could feel the tooled leather of the musketeer pauldron beneath his fingers. The boy hadn’t been wearing it when he rode out to Lupiac. Had he put it on simply to go to sleep? Porthos was tempted to wrap an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist and pull him closer, to offer him the comfort of another warm body in the bed, the way he had done for Aramis in the past; the way, once upon a time, he had done for Charon and Flea. Porthos had grown up with too many limbs in the bed, and even now it sometimes ached, to wake and know that he was alone. As the only son of a prosperous farmer, d’Artagnan was undoubtedly less used to sharing his sleeping space, but as Porthos kept his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, a silent promise of comfort and friendship, he could feel the boy’s tension easing. He raised his arm when d’Artagnan rolled towards him, tucking himself against Porthos’ side like a brother. That was when the tears started. Porthos felt his shirt grow warm and wet, could feel the subtle hitch in d’Artagnan’s breathing as the boy tried to fight against his sorrow.

“It’s ok.” Porthos whispered softly, “There’s no shame in grieving.”

D’Artagnan shook with the effort to control his crying and then lost the battle entirely. A broken sob tore itself from his throat and he began to weep in earnest – in a way he hadn’t done since he was a child. All the rage, all the pain – his hatred of LeBarge, the cardinal – his anger at Constance, at her husband; all the grief he had locked away since he been forced to bribe the undertaker to help dig his father’s grave came flooding out. Porthos held him steady all the while, demanding no cessation or explanation, broad hands warm against d’Artagnan’s skin and a reminder of the here and now. There could be no shame with Porthos, only friendship, and when d’Artagnan at last fell into an exhausted sleep, Porthos stayed beside him. He gently stripped the pauldron away, setting it softly to one side. D’Artagnan sank onto his back, nose blocked and breath coming in soft snorts. Porthos settled down beside him, ready to wake at the first sign of a nightmare. He had done this for Aramis, after the massacre of Savoy, and it was no hardship to perform the duty for a different friend. Closing his eyes, Porthos settled down to his own rest.

* * *

If Porthos had entertained hope of a few restful days wherein d’Artagnan might have time to process his grief, his hopes were thwarted not long after sunrise. A message arrived from the Bishop of Tarbes requesting d’Artagnan join him at his table two days hence. Athos dictated the reply, graciously accepting the Bishop’s kind invitation and begging leave for d’Artagnan to bring a friend: le Comte de la Fère was currently his guest. The return reply was received by evening and Aramis marvelled at just what speed the messengers must be riding to have exchanged the letters so quickly.

Aramis had yet to find a moment in which to speak to d’Artagnan alone. The boy had risen early and sought out Audet. He had spent the morning being taken through the estate’s accounts, asking for Athos to join him only when it became clear that his meagre experience with budgets and expenditure could not have prepared him for such a variety of sums relating to the different aspects of the estate. The farming books he understood with ease and the tenancy agreements and the exacting of the rents were transactions he had seen from the other end. But the household wages, the cost of supplying the table and a wardrobe; even the cost of his aunt’s doctor were all expenses for which he had no context. Athos knew what might be considered reasonable – what would be seen as extravagant or miserly. Audet had seemed to thaw somewhat, in his attitude towards d’Artagnan, and he was perfectly civil as he took his new master through the history of the accounts and explained the forecast of expenditure for the coming season. The funds set aside for the Paris house meant that there was less liquid capital than d’Artagnan had been hoping for, given his plans to see the villages through the winter, but a full inspection of the region had not yet been completed and it might yet prove that things were not quite so desperate as he feared. Athos assured him that Beaudoin’s report would no doubt arrive within the day and they would then be able to make a more informed decision. Audet promised to compile what information he could from sources in the area and by the time lunch came, d’Artagnan at least felt like he had some semblance of a plan, upon which he could address his concerns to the Bishop.

It would have helped if they could have met with Beaudoin in person, before travelling to Tarbes. Having spent at least a day in the city, Beaudoin would have gained a sense of which tensions ran deepest – information which could not always be fully expressed in writing. Sometimes, a soldier simply had to walk the streets himself to understand what was being described to him.

* * *

 

After the third time d’Artagnan succeeded in evading him, Aramis gave up on trying to corner him. When d’Artagnan was ready to hear him, he would offer his apologies, but for now there seemed no sense in pushing the issue. Athos had disappeared sometime after lunchtime, and had not been seen since. Porthos had accepted d’Artagnan’s offer of sparring practice and Aramis was left at something of a loose ends. Letting his feet guide him up the stairs, he decided to check on d’Artagnan’s aunt. The lady had seemed in better spirits since her doctor’s last visit but she was still visibly weak and at times had trouble swallowing the thin broth her maid served her every two hours.

Claudine answered his knock and after a moment’s hesitation stepped aside to let him in. The dowager was sitting up in bed, propped against a wealth of pillows and rich, embroidered shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She watched him enter with bright, intelligent eyes and Aramis was glad to see the clouding effects of the poppy had begun to fade. Bowing, Aramis made his apologies for disturbing her.

“Forgive the intrusion, Madame. I only wanted to enquire after your health.”

The lady stared at him steadily for a moment, before twitching her hands in a summons. “Come closer.” She commanded, fluttering her fingers at the low chair by her bedside. “I understand I owe you thanks.” She continued, once Aramis was seated. “The loss of the poppy tea has been most unpleasant, but I find my mind is clearer without it.”

“It has been known to have some – adverse – effects,” Aramis agreed, unsure whether that had been an invitation to speak and cautious of inviting rebuke. “Madame.” He added, belatedly.

The lady’s lips twisted wryly and glanced at where her maid was still hovering, uncertainly. With a glance she dismissed the girl to her embroidery, waiting until Claudine was settled across the room next to her basket of threads before addressing Aramis again. “I think we can dispense with the formalities, Monsieur.” She said at last, and her voice was weary. “You have seen me at my worst; I think any pretence at reverence is a bit farfetched at this stage.”

“I would never presume –” Aramis began but he was cut off firmly.

“You will address me by my Christian name: Colette. Though I would not recommend doing so where Monsieur Audet can hear you; he is something of a stickler for the rules. My husband was much the same.” The love and sorrow in her tone was evident, and Aramis felt pity swell in his heart.

“I am sorry for your loss.” He murmured.

“As am I.” She whispered and for a moment she seemed lost to memories. “Tell me Monsiuer –”

“Aramis. My name is Aramis.”

“Tell me Aramis, how fares my nephew in his uncle’s seat?”

Aramis chose his words carefully. “The circumstances are, understandably, a little removed from his current frame of reference. But he is quick and hardworking. Our friend, Athos – you would know him as le Comte de la Fère – is with him, and offering some guidance.” He did not want to present d’Artagnan to his aunt as entirely dependent on Athos’ wisdom, but the woman must surely know that her nephew was treading water just to keep from drowning.

“ _De la Fère_?” Colette replied incredulously and then seemed to pause, as if remembering herself. “Well, I supposed rumours can grow with telling. You seem like an honourable man and I hope to find my nephew one besides; you do not seem like to type of men to associate with a scoundrel.”

Aramis felt his spine stiffen. “Athos is one of the finest men I have ever had the honour of serving with. He is a loyal friend and a true musketeer.”

“And for a man of the regiment there can be no higher compliment.” Colette smiled weakly. “I have known a few musketeers in my time. Proud men, who serve France with honour – to them there is no greater gift than a commission in that regiment.”

“Certainly your nephew would agree.”

“Tell me of him.” Colette said. “He has been to visit me these last days, but alas I had not the strength for conversation. He is a fine boy, you said.”

“He is.” Aramis confirmed. “A gifted swordsman and a kind soul; he is a gentleman to the bone.”

“Good.” Colette murmured. “Good. I was always very fond of his mother – we were friends in our girlhood. He looks so like her.”

“There is something of his father in him too,” Aramis offered, remembering the portrait downstairs and how even for all the similarities between the faces of mother and son, there had been something alien in d’Artagnan’s features; something which could only have come from Alexandre d’Artagnan.

“A good man by all accounts. For all the good it did him in the end.” Aramis wondered with a start whether she had heard of the circumstances of Alexandre’s death but then she continued. “My husband’s father was a proud man – his name meant everything to him. On his death bed he made my husband swear never to look to his sister again or to pay her any form of attention. It broke Henri’s heart to learn she had died. I begged him to go to her, in those final days. D’Artagnan – the elder, not my nephew – had written to say that she was ill and that the priest had been to visit her. But he would not be foresworn against his father’s ghost.” She sighed and Aramis could see her mind was lost to distant days.

So that had been the way of it. To do his duty to one, d’Artagnan’s uncle had failed in his duty to the other. Aramis wondered whether the man had always intended for his nephew to inherit; whether, if Death had not seized him quite so suddenly, he might have introduced himself to d’Artagnan. Had the house in Paris been meant to suit that purpose? When he looked back, d’Artagnan’s aunt had fallen into sleep. The veins were purple-blue beneath her eyelids and her breath was thin. Claudine came to settle her more comfortably and Aramis took that as his cue to leave.

Making his way downstairs, he interrupted Athos returning to the house. The man was accompanied by a boy, some sort of apprentice it would seem, who held half a dozen wrapped bundles, whilst Athos held more, himself. A footman relieved both parties of their burdens and then Athos flipped a coin to the boy and sent him on his way.

“Presents?” Aramis enquired jovially.

“Necessities.” Was the short answer. “Have you seen d’Artagnan? We must discuss the journey to Tarbes and what we can expect when we get there.”

“He’s sparring with Porthos.” Aramis said, “Or at least he was, last time I saw him. When you say we,” he added, “I presume you mean all four of us.”

“Yes.” Athos said. “But unfortunately only two of us will be travelling as musketeers.”

* * *

Much to d’Artagnan’s dismay the morning of the journey to Tarbes dawned wet and windy, putting paid to any idea he might have had of riding the whole way. Decked out in adapted finery, stood next to Athos who was much the same, d’Artagnan watched with distaste as his uncle’s carriage was brought forward and the door promptly opened by a footman.

“No.” D’Artagnan said, looking at Athos.

“Yes.” His friend replied. “We cannot very well appear before the Bishop soaking wet, and we will arrive as nothing less in this weather if we ride.”

“Aramis and Porthos are riding.” D’Artagnan objected.

“Neither of them are wearing velvet and lace.” Athos countered, before pushing d’Artagnan towards the carriage. “Now get in. This is going to be uncomfortable enough as it is, without postponing the inevitable.”

Porthos was openly chuckling. D’Artagnan climbed into the carriage with bad grace, wrinkling his nose at the scent of stale cloth and leather that clung to the inside. This journey was going to be unpleasant.

As it turned out, the experience was more unpleasant than anticipated. Unused to the fetid air inside a carriage when the covers were pulled shut against the rain, d’Artagnan felt distinctly queasy. Athos at last risked damp boots and seats to pull back the covering and let the cool, wet air blow in. D’Artagnan breathed deeply, feeling his stomach churn in rebellion even as his headache settled. His only comfort was that Athos too, looked vaguely ill. Though he must undoubtedly have travelled in carriages before, he was unlikely to have done so in the last five years and it would appear he had become unaccustomed to the sensation of rocking and shaking over every bump and crevice in the road. For the first half hour, d’Artagnan had been convinced that his teeth were going to rattle straight out of his head.

Porthos drew level beside them, ducking his head to peer in through the window. Water sluiced off the brim of his hat in a steady stream but his grin was cheerful enough. “Having fun?”

D’Artagnan responded with one of the more charming phrases Porthos had taught him.

“I think you can take that to mean that we are in ecstasies.” Athos said dryly.

“You’re own fault for trying to make the journey in a single day.” Porthos told him.

D’Artagnan leaned forward to scowl at him. “If it hadn’t been raining, we wouldn’t have had any trouble doing it in a single day.”

He had not wished to leave Castelmore before Beaudoin’s report arrived and he’d managed to convince Athos that if they pushed the horses, they could make Tarbes in a number of hours; if they left in the morning it would give them the better part of the afternoon to make themselves presentable to the Bishop. Athos had advised against trying to fold fine doublets and hose into a soldiers pack and strapping it to the back of the horse, but in the end he had given way. Though his objections had been strenuous, d’Artagnan had been convinced that the clothes would not crease too badly.

Fortune, however, had seen fit to serve d’Artagnan his comeuppance: Beaudoin’s letter never arrived and the rain on the next morning had meant that d’Artagnan’s plan to ride to Tarbes was scuppered. The ground was too soft to push the horses at the speed that would be needed to give them time to secure rooms, bathe and change and deal with any wrinkles in their clothing. They had been forced to don their finery at Castelmore and the carriage had been called for. There had been only the briefest stop for lunch to exchange the carriage horses and now darkness was drawing in.

“Perhaps next time,” Athos said, “you will listen to the wisdom of experience.”

D’Artagnan sensed there was a story to be had there. Tipping a smile in Athos’ direction, he invited him to continue.

“It was my cousin’s sixteenth birthday.” Athos said, at last. “I had insisted on riding, rather than accompanying my parents in their carriage. The heavens opened not a mile from the house. By the time I arrived I looked like nothing so much as a drowned rat and my mother refused to let me be seen. I was forced to borrow clothing from my cousin and as he was much smaller than I, the result was – unflattering.”

Porthos hooted with laughter and d’Artagnan chuckled quietly. He liked these rare glimpses into Athos’ life before his marriage, when his life – if not without its trials – at least seemed to have been free of such torturous burdens as he carried now.

Aramis wrapped his knuckled against the top of his door and d’Artagnan could hear his voice filter through the awning.

“We’re nearing the city wall now.”

D’Artagnan risked the rain to thrust his head out the window and observe their approach. Men at arms were arrayed atop the wall, each armed and vigilant. People were being stopped at the gate – either searched or asked to prove their business. A line was snaking out along the road and d’Artagnan was concerned the delay would make them late for the Bishop. A bad first impression was unlikely to help their cause any.

The city guards, however, upon seeing the approach of the carriage, forced others to stand aside. They waved d’Artagnan through without issue and as the two musketeers riding beside him were clearly an escort, let them too, pass without question. Inside the wall, the city showed the signs of discontent. A few of the homes bore evidence of fire and still more the signs of riots and vandalism. The damage became less as they made their way towards the Bishop’s mansion, the poorer reaches of the city giving way to broader streets and well-appointed houses, but still, even here, Athos could see signs of violence. As they passed the shuttered doors of a guildhall, Athos thought he could see the words _liberté_ and _sécurité_ scratched into the wood.

When they reached the Bishop’s mansion it was clear that the man was entertaining more guests than simply d’Artagnan. Light and music spilled from the entry way and an assortment of carriages were arrayed before the house.

“We will try to find Beaudoin.” Aramis said. “See what he can tell us. We will return soon.”

“We will stay no longer than is necessary.” Athos told him. “If you have not returned by the time we leave, we will meet you at the Dove.” It was an inn they had passed on their way through the city. “Keep your eyes open and if you cannot find Beaudoin, try to find out what has happened to him.”

Aramis nodded his assent and turned his horse back towards the gates. As he and Porthos disappeared into the shadows, d’Artagnan stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the Bishop’s mansion. Guards stood at the door, weapons bristling in the torchlight, and d’Artagnan resettled his sword against his hip. He felt Athos do the same beside him.

Their carriage pulled away and the two were left with no choice but to go and join the revelry. As the warm light of the mansion washed over them, d’Artagnan steeled himself for what was coming.

“Into the belly of the beast.” Athos murmured; the words mirrored d’Artagnan’s sentiments entirely.


	9. Chapter 9

As they made their way through shadowed streets, Porthos felt old instincts, the kind that had kept him alive in the Court, rise to the fore. After some debate, they had elected to stable their horses at the Dove, proceeding on foot into the web of Tarbes. The horses had been attracting too much attention; like-wise their blue cloaks. Unsavoury characters had melted into step behind them and only a quick scuffle in a side-street – where in the musketeers proved themselves more than a match for group of murderous thieves – had seen them secure the right to walk through Tarbes unmolested. Whilst Paris seemed to come alive at night, Tarbes seemed to fall to malaise. The shutters in every street were locked and barred; the taverns seemed subdued and dark and not once, in the space of three hours, had Porthos seen a guard on patrol. In Paris, Red Guards and Musketeers both took to the streets at nights, to keep the King’s peace. Here, they seemed afraid to stir from their barracks. As they turned onto one of the wider thoroughfares, Porthos saw a flicker of movement at the corner of his eyes. In his dark leathers, and with the ease of long practice, Porthos melted into the shadows, drawing Aramis along with him. It was times like these that he wished his friend had shirked his brown coat for one of grey, but he would have to do with what camouflage they could manage. Aramis, trusting his lead, stayed silent, folding himself more completely into darkened mouth of a nearby alleyway. Porthos stayed still, and watching. A minute passed, then two, and the street showed no sign of activity. Then, at the far corner of the intersection, a shadow stirred. Whoever had been trailing them had been keeping far enough back to miss their quick diversion into darkness and now he was forced to step into the light to try and track his quarry.

The man was a tall man, lean and wiry. His boots made no sound as he walked, and Porthos caught the gleam of metal at his hip. Though the hat pulled low over his face obscured most of his features, Porthos could make out a hooked nose and thin, wide mouth. He turned his head this way and that, as if scenting the air like a bloodhound. For a moment, he seemed to stare right at them, gaze fixed, unwavering on the alley. Porthos felt Aramis tense in anticipation behind him, but he made no move himself, not even to breathe. At last the man snarled and stalked back the way he’d come, angry mutterings echoing in the empty street. Aramis sighed and Porthos waited a moment longer before stepping out of the shadows.

“More than a common thug, looking for an easy purse.” Aramis said and Porthos grunted his agreement. “The Bishop’s man, you think?”

“Maybe.” Porthos said. “Or maybe it’s got something to do with why we haven’t been able to find a single person who’s seen Beaudoin or his men since they got here.”

“Are we sure they did? The Bishop never confirmed it; we just assumed Beaudoin had made it to Tarbes.” Aramis’ mind was clearly on Cornet and Porthos grimaced as he remembered the bodies of his friends, stripped and left for the crows by Gaudet and his men.

“He told Beaudoin to meet him; if Beaudoin hadn’t got there, wouldn’t the Bishop have asked where they were?”

“Not if he already knew what had happened to them.”

“Come on.” Porthos said, leading the way down the street. “We’ll give it one more go with the watch commander and then we’ll go back and get the horses. There’s nothing else we can do here.”

* * *

 

D’Artagnan grit his teeth and forced his shoulders to relax as Athos led yet another woman in a slow allemande across the room. The Bishop had been very good at keeping Athos away from d’Artagnan since the beginning of the evening. Whilst d’Artagnan had been seated close to the Bishop at dinner, Athos had been more than half a table away, beyond the reach of conversation. Fortunately for d’Artagnan though, the Bishop also appeared to have miscalculated with his choice of other dining partners. It was clear he had hoped that the Marquis de Pau would join him in delivering to d’Artagnan those honeyed insults that Athos had warned him about. And certainly, the Marquis had seemed more than happy to oblige him: one look at d’Artagnan’s borrowed finery had him making some soft comment about how surprised he was to find Parisian fashion so changed, since he’d last been there. How generous was the Comte to bring the new style to their attention. D’Artagnan had flushed but was saved from answering by the intervention of the Marquis’ lady. More than a decade her husband’s junior she seemed nearly overwhelmed by the size of the company and gladly latched onto a topic upon which she could acquit herself with equanimity. With a surprising level of tenaciousness, the Marquise held forth on the influence of Spanish fashions and her disappointment with this season’s colours, all through the dinner. By the end of it the Marquis was grinding his teeth and the Bishop held his wineglass in a white-knuckled grip. Had the circumstances been different, either man might have easily ordered her to silence, but the elderly Baroness de Muret, seated nearby, had taken an interest in the conversation. Such was her wealth and the reach of her influence that the Bishop was clearly wary of offending her. And the Marquis, though he shot more than one poisonous look in d’Artagnan’s direction, was forced to follow his lead. D’Artagnan, for his part, nodded and offered agreement in all the right places and, as the last of the wine was being served and the company beginning to turn their thoughts towards dancing and cards, dared to mention that a number of the court ladies procured their fabrics from a Monsieur Bonacieux on le Rue de Planard. Perhaps they might wish to view his stock, the next time they were in Paris?

It was stretching the truth to its utmost, for d’Artagnan was aware that Bonacieux had not sold cloth to anyone above the rank of merchant in some time. But d’Artagnan still harboured some concerns for Constance’s safety under his roof and an influx of coin would undoubtedly soothe Bonacieux’s temper. As the Bishop rose, signalling the end of the meal, the Baroness de Muret positioned herself in such a way as to leave d’Artagnan with no choice but to offer her his arm and lead her to the dancing. They were joined in the dancing by six other couples, and the small area of the room which had been cleared for the purpose began to feel rather crowded. Those men and women less inclined to activity took seats at the card tables which had been arranged for them, the Bishop standing above it all like some stone gargoyle, watching the proceedings. D’Artagnan executed a passable _basse dance_ – his better efforts waylaid by his attempts to locate Athos in the cluster of people crowded into the parlour. The Baroness was short enough that he could see easily over her head, but the steps of the dance forced him to turn too often to properly assess the guests.

By the time the Baroness released him, Athos was, himself, engaged. The Bishop accosted d’Artagnan almost immediately and kept him sequestered in one corner of the room whilst the labours of the musicians encouraged further dancing amongst the other guests. The questions the Bishop posed to him were all inane, a war of polite attrition rather than an outright assault. D’Artagnan managed to ask a few of his own in turn, enquiring after Beaudoin and apprising the Bishop of the orders the King had given him – though he was sure the man was already aware of them. The Bishop’s eyes sharpened when he heard that d’Artagnan had been given charge of Lupiac and Castelnavet, in addition to his own estate, and d’Artagnan began to wish fervently for Athos to join them. He had the distinct impression that he may have misstepped in offering that information, but without Athos’ to confirm or deny it he was left in something of a quandary.

“And has the King given you any indication of whether you can expect those Parishes to remain your concern, after your business here is completed?” The Bishop asked, silkily, beetle-black eyes alive with interest.

“He has not.” D’Artagnan said, risking another furtive glance around the room.

“Intriguing.” The Bishop murmured, and d’Artagnan was reminded strongly of the Cardinal. Though corpulent and soft-faced – with none of Richelieu’s reptilian sleekness – the Bishop shared his superior’s cruel eyes and mocking smile.

“Your Grace, forgive my inattention.” D’Artagnan nearly sagged with relief as he heard Athos approach them, but held himself rigorously upright through force of will. “Your guests have been so welcoming, that I have had no opportunity to pay my respects, properly.” The Bishop offered a stiff nod in response to Athos’ shallow bow and d’Artagnan was struck but the apparent change wrought in his friend. There was a curl to lip, a mild disdain held in the tilt of his shoulders and the turn of his wrist, that had transformed Athos from a soldier to a nobleman. To d’Artagnan’s eyes he had become almost unrecognisable and the lazy roll of vowels as Athos spoken left him licking his lips and thinking back uncertainly on his own diction; he could never achieve the easy sense of good breeding that permeated Athos’ tone.

“I must enquire after the health of your sister, your Grace.” Athos was continuing, casually ignoring all possible indicators that the Bishop was less than pleased with having his conversation with d’Artagnan interrupted. “She is recently married to le Comte de Limésy, I believe? A cousin of mine, on my mother’s side.” The Bishop looked like he had swallowed glass at this pronouncement. As d’Artagnan had never heard Athos mention any sort of family connection to the Bishop, he wondered if this was true – and if not, how Athos attended to make good on the falsehood.

“She is well.” The Bishop said, fat fingers fluttering against his glass with distaste. “But of course,” he added with a sly look, “those of us fortunate enough to find God’s grace within the sacrament of matrimony, must be ever happy in the estate.” The last was said with an arch look which said the Bishop was well aware of how Athos’ own marriage had ended. Athos simply smiled thinly in reply.  
“I’m sure you will excuse us,” The Bishop continued after a moment, “but I have some business to discuss with de Castelmore in private. I do hope you enjoy your evening.”

“Your Grace,” d’Artagnan ventured. “If your business concerns the King’s work then you should know that Ath – that de la Fère was sent to Gascony with the same commission as myself.”

“I am aware of the King’s orders for his musketeers.” The Bishop said waspishly. “Had I meant to discuss such affairs, naturally de la Fère would have been invited to join us. As it is, what I have to say is of a far more personal nature. You will excuse us.” He said to Athos, and without waiting for an answer marched away.

“Go.” Athos said, relieving d’Artagnan of his undrunk wine. “Keep him busy and let him talk at you, learn what you can. I’m going to see if I can find out anything about Beaudoin’s visit with His Grace.”

D’Artagnan nodded and weaved his way through the guests, catching up to the Bishop just as a servant opened one of the lesser doors from the parlour, hidden behind a heavy brocade curtain. The other guests seemed not to notice their departure – attention caught by an acrobat who had been brought in to entertain them.

The hallway beyond the door was cool and dim. A serving boy hurried ahead, carrying a lantern, leading them at last to a heavy wood door, with a large, ornate handle. Behind the door lay a library – perhaps used by the Bishop as a second office, for there were maps of the various parishes and great ledgers, the size of a man from shoulder to waist, arrayed against the walls. The servant lit the candles in the room and then slipped out again, leaving d’Artagnan to stand uncertainly in the centre of the room as the Bishop moved to one of the bookcases.

“I understand that since your birth, you have had no contact with your mother’s family – no letters, no notes, nothing to give you any knowledge of the particulars of that estate or the heraldic line?”

D’Artagnan bit back a rash answer and said calmly. “That is correct, Your Grace.”

“But you are aware that you are the sole legitimate heir to the estate?” The Bishop didn’t wait for d’Artagnan’s reply. Pulling a leather-bound book from the shelf he placed it heavily on the table, turning the pages, until he found the one he was looking for. “A record of the births in Castelmore for the last two decades.” He said, beckoning d’Artagnan closer; he held a candle over the page so d’Artagnan could see. There, in the flowering, cursive script of the Church scholar, were the words: _14 January 1612, Édouard Henri Martin, born to Marie Therese Martin and Henri de Batz de Montesquiou_. At the side and clearly written in another’s hand was the word _illegitimate_.

D’Artagnan drew back, mind racing as he tried to determine what advantage the Bishop gained by telling him this. So the young man who had confronted him in the tavern was his uncle’s bastard. It explained the boy’s particular anger, at least. Had the Bishop heard of the meeting? His uncle’s will had clearly made no provision for the boy. Or, if it had – no one had seen fit to inform d’Artagnan. His requests to Audet to see the document had led to much muttering and a series of evasions. Pressed as he was, to learn too much in too short a space of time, d’Artagnan had not forced the issue. He was regretting that decision now.

The Bishop was watching him carefully for a reaction; d’Artagnan fought to ensure he showed none.

“My uncle would not be the first man to sire a child out of wedlock.” He said, holding the Bishop’s gaze. “I doubt he will be the last either.”

“You knew of this boy’s existence then?”

“He is known to me.” D’Artagnan replied carefully – after all, it wasn’t a lie.

“And you do not anticipate that he will cause any trouble; he will not try to incite your farmers to rebel against you?”

“He’s young.” D’Artagnan said, “I doubt he has that kind of sway amongst them.” Though his words were confident, at the back of his mind he felt uneasy. Édouard was clearly known to the men at the Boot and Slipper and at least one of them had felt fond enough of him to withdraw him from d’Artagnan’s presence before a fight could be started. D’Artagnan was sincere when he said he doubted Édouard capable of starting a rebellion – but that did not mean could not be the vessel for one.

“You’re very confident, for one so new to his position.” The Bishop mused; his face was turned away and d’Artagnan couldn’t determine his expression. As there hadn’t been a question, d’Artagnan declined to offer any answer. It was a peculiar sensation for him, trying to draw an opponent out through silence and stillness. Even under his friends’ tutelage, he knew he still had a tendency to throw himself into combat, to lash out with speed and steel when confronted. It had served him well in the past – and though he still lost consistently to Athos in a duel, he had drawn level with Porthos and was starting to prove a true rival to Aramis. In a bout of five, he would usually win three – though they both knew he would never been Aramis as a marksman.

“Had Your Grace more he wished to tell me?” D’Artagnan asked at last, when it seemed the Bishop was content to simply stare into the middle distance.

“No. No, nothing else.” The Bishop said, turning back to him. “We should rejoin the gathering; I have been too long absent.” The last was said with a touch of rebuke, as if it were d’Artagnan who had insisted on this rendezvous and kept the Bishop from his guests.

Athos was still absent when they stepped back into the parlour and, free from the Bishop’s attentions, d’Artagnan was forced to present himself to the company and make what conversation he could manage. Luckily, young, unmarried men, where in short supply and those mothers with daughters who had yet to find a husband, were happy to commandeer d’Artagnan’s time and whisper in his ear about this daughter’s beauty or that daughter’s accomplishments. This was how Athos found him, stood by a small settee, upon which four aging ladies had crammed themselves and their skirts, faces tilted up to d’Artagnan as they attempted to woo the young Comte on their daughters’ behalves. By the time Athos arrived d’Artagnan had been forced to defer two invitations to dine, another to a small concert – very private you understand, just a select group of friends – and a fourth to what sounded to be like a rather extravagant garden party. The ladies looked less than pleased with his explanation that the King’s work prevented him from accepting any invitations at the moment, but switched their smiles readily enough to Athos as he approached.

“It is time we were going.” Athos said quietly, one hand braced against d’Artagnan’s elbow. There was a fine tremor in his muscles and d’Artagnan noted with concern that Athos appeared to be favouring his left leg. D’Artagnan nodded his understanding, and as quickly as he was able offered his excuses to the ladies. The Bishop was less keen to see them leave so early, but as Athos had developed a thin sheen of sweat across his brow, it was not hard to make the man believe that Athos had taken ill and that it was only right they make their apologies and depart.

The night air was cold and damp with the promise of rain. D’Artagnan signalled for the carriage, casting about for Porthos or Aramis, wrapping an arm firmly under Athos’ armpit almost on instinct when the man sagged against him.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan whispered, unwilling to draw the attention of the guards and footmen by speaking louder.

“I fell.” Athos ground out and d’Artagnan let his silence express how very unsatisfactory he found that answer.

Porthos rode in to the courtyard, Aramis behind him, just as Athos was hauling himself into the carriage.

“The Dove.” D’Artagnan told them, and stepped up into the carriage.

As the carriage lurched into motion, Athos went white and clutched his thigh.

“You fell.” D’Artagnan groused at him, swatting Athos’ hands away so he could feel along the bone with gentle fingers. He was no Aramis, but even he could tell if a leg was badly broken. Athos hissed between his teeth but allowed d’Artagnan his ministrations.

“I might have neglected to mention that I fell from something of a height.”

“What were you _doing_?” d’Artagnan demanded.

“The Bishop has Beaudoin and his men under house arrest.” Athos said, gritting his teeth against a yell as the carriage went over a stone. “I found them in one of the upper rooms of the house, but I had to scale a portion of the outer wall to reach them.”

“You scaled a wall in this?” d’Artagnan asked incredulously, indicating the silk-soft boots with their arching heel and the restrictive confines of the doublet Athos wore.

“It was necessary. I had to speak with Beaudoin.”

“Why are they under house arrest?”

“The Bishop isn’t calling it that, not officially. Technically they are housed as his guests, invited to help him form a campaign of pacification for Gascony. That they are not permitted to leave the house, or send word to anyone on the outside, is simply a formality.”

“And they haven’t tried to leave by force?”

“Beaudoin must walk a fine line. Any sign of armed resistance and the Bishop can claim that any resultant deaths amongst the regiment were the result of their rebellion against the Church and Crown. Even if he did manage to leave the house with all his men alive, there is no guarantee that the King would support the act – especially not with the Cardinal whispering in his ear. Beaudoin is hoping that the Bishop might let him continue his survey of the region in the next day or so, but for now they have no choice but to sit and wait.”

“And what do we do?” d’Artagnan asked.

“We return to Castelmore.” Athos said. “Before he was corralled by the Bishop, Beaudoin received a report of gunpowder and muskets being stockpiled somewhere on the road to Lupiac. He did not have time to investigate, but already men have rioted in Tarbes – LeBarge’s tyranny is still felt keenly and the people have yet to see any justice. I dislike the idea of leaving Beaudoin friendless in this city, but if a rebellion is coming, we have to know of it.”

* * *

 

Aramis liked the idea of abandoning Beaudoin even less than Athos, offering a colourful tirade in objection even as he fashioned a brace for Athos’ leg. The bone was not broken but the it _was_ bruised and it would be weak for several days.

“You can put no weight on that leg for at least a week.” Aramis said when he was finished. “It’s a miracle you didn’t snap the bone in two; any aggravation now will only make it worse. Stay off your feet and if the pain worsens, let me know immediately.”

Athos grunted his assent, clearly displeased at the prospect of inactivity.

“We’ll take the long route back to Castelmore.” D’Artagnan said. “It will double the journey but the roads are better and I want to get a sense for how the settlements nearby are reacting to the Bishop’s leadership. Can he ride?” He asked Aramis, gesturing to where Athos was now laid out upon the bed, trying not to dribble wine down his chin as he tipped the bottle up to meet him.

“If he must.” Aramis conceded.

“I don’t want us splitting up.” D’Artagnan said. “We’ll send the carriage back to Castelmore and Athos and I will borrow horses to ride with you. One of us on the road, alone, is too vulnerable. I don’t trust the Bishop.”

“Neither do I,” Porthos said, giving them a quick description of his and Aramis’ meeting with the Captain of the City Guard. “Man kept saying we’d need to check with the Bishop – didn’t matter what question we asked him, that was his answer. We could have asked what colour the sky was and he would have told us to ‘confirm that information with His Grace’.”

“It’s possible he also sent someone to follow us.” Aramis said, “Though we’ve no proof of that. Thin fellow, hooked nose, followed us for a while before we lost him.”

D’Artagnan felt unease stir in his gut at the account, but pushed it resolutely aside. There must be a hundred men in France with that description, and what were the chances of a man he’d seen in Paris having journeyed all the way to Tarbes?

“We should get some sleep,” Porthos said, “We’ll want to leave early in the morning.”

“I’ll take first watch.” D’Artagnan said, feeling disinclined to sleep. If his friends thought him overly cautious for following procedures they generally only used on the road, they didn’t say anything.

“Wake me in two hours.” Aramis instructed, shedding his weapons and climbing onto the bed next to Athos. Porthos handed d’Artagnan a loaded pistol before lying down himself and soon enough soft snores filled the room.

Keeping to the shadows, d’Artagnan peered out the window. In the darkened streets below, he could feel someone watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I missed yesterday's update and I'm afraid that's indicative of how things are going to be from now on. Grad school's started and I don't have all day to write anymore. There'll still be a chapter a week (at least) - I had initially thought to finish this fic in a week, but then it rather ran away from me and 30K+ the plot's just getting started.... :S
> 
> Also, now that I'm not trying to write and post in a day, the chapter's should get proof-read properly before going up. Which should make the general reading experience that much more pleasant.


	10. Chapter 10

By the time they had ridden past the boundaries of Tarbes and into the surrounding environs, the day had grown unseasonably warm. Cloaks had been uniformly discarded and Aramis was contemplating losing his jacket as well, as sweat trickled unpleasantly across his spine. They were moving slowly, the horses maintaining a slow and careful walk, as Athos gripped the reins with white-knuckles; his face sallow with pain. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan had tried to call a halt, to change their plans and to return to Tarbes; d’Artagnan had even suggested recalling the carriage and returning fully to Castelmore. But Athos had refused and all of Aramis’ quiet entreaties to forsake his pride and obstinacy had fallen on deaf ears. Riding with a bruised bone was no laughing matter and chronic pain would soon lead to exhaustion. For now though, Athos seemed alert, and whilst the ride was clearly paining him, he appeared to be in no danger of falling from the saddle. At least, not whilst Aramis and Porthos insisted on riding three-abreast to bracket him. Athos, fully aware of what his friends were doing, merely huffed in irritation and continued his perusal of the surrounding countryside.

Whilst Castelmore had seemed relatively hale, its fields prosperous and its people content, if not actually happy, in Tarbes, there was greater evidence of the sickness d’Artagnan had feared. Crops were rotting in some fields, whilst others showed no signs of ever having been sown. Great swathes of earth were scorched and barren, and more than one farm they passed showed signs of rioting and vandalism. Farmers watched them with wary eyes, herding daughters and wives out of sight; sons leant meaningfully on muskets, and dogs snarled and barked at their masters’ heals. As they passed out of sight of the last farm house – quiet and empty, and too still to be truly uninhabited – d’Artagnan reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. The others pulled in alongside him, watching as d’Artagnan hopped easily across the ditch separating the fields from the road and knelt beside the matted and downtrodden corpse of the crops.

“Barley.” He said, plucking a ear from the surrounding mulch to show them. “You can get good money for a spring crop, they’re good for malting – there’s no reason for this to have been left in the fields to rot.”

“Were they diseased?” Aramis asked. “Was something wrong?”

D’Artagnan cast about, running his gloved fingers through the dirt, breaking open what ears he could find and examining the grains. “Not that I can see.” He said. “And even if they were, you wouldn’t leave them in the fields and risk the blight spreading. What has happened here?” This last was said more to himself, than to his companions and besides, they had no answer for him. Athos had grown increasingly concerned as they rode, the extent of the neglect and the obvious civil unrest drawing a frown between his brows. Porthos was looking out across the horizon, as if the unending roll of sweating, stinking fields might provide some answer. D’Artagnan was still contemplating the ruined crop when Porthos’ sharp words had him up and springing back into the saddle.

“We have company.”

In the distance, riding hard enough that the hooves of their horses threw up a plume of dirt and mud, a black mass moved toward them.

“I count maybe seven.” Aramis said, squinting against the sun through his spyglass. “No insignia that I can see; weapons aplenty, though.”

“We will have to meet them.” Athos said, “If they are robbers we cannot allow them to fall upon the households on this road. If they are honest men, then they may be able to assist us.”

Porthos grunted his disbelief and carefully nudged his horse so that he was arrayed slightly in front of Athos. There was nowhere to withdraw from the road, and as they had spotted the approaching party, surely they had been seen in turn. D’Artagnan cast a worried glace at Athos’ sword-arm – the way it had clearly gone stiff and bloodless where he had been gripping the reins. Athos was a match for most swordsmen even when lost to drink but a braced leg would mean he would not be able to fight, dismounted, or jump free should his mount be cut from under him. The other riders were fast approaching, the speed of their horses eating up the ground between them, and d’Artagnan made a rapid-fire decision. Twisting, his fingers slid quickly to the buckles keeping his pauldron in place, pulling the strap loose and letting the leather slide from his shoulder. It felt strange to voluntarily surrender the insignia and for a moment his breath caught in his chest. Ignoring Porthos’ amazed inquiry, he stowed the pauldron in his saddlebags and weighed his options. He’d sent all his finer clothes back to Castelmore in the carriage but the _parure_ Athos had insisted he wear last night had nearly been forgotten, scooped up by Aramis moments before they quit the inn and returned to d’Artagnan with a mocking tut. It would have to do. D’Artagnan clipped the broach at his throat, fumbling with the clasp of the bracelet until Porthos leant across to help him; the rings at least were easy enough to slip on. D’Artagnan folded his gloves neatly into his belt and pushed up his sleeves, just enough to make his adornment wink in the autumn sunlight. It was absurd to wear such fripperies so early in the morning, but with no coat of arms on his clothing or his tack, d’Artagnan was at a loss to procure any other signs of status. It was a calculated risk, but as the riders drew closer, d’Artagnan thought they had more of a look of soldiers than brigands. A soldier – even a mercenary – would know that le Comte de Castelmore could offer gold in exchange for peaceful passage; they would also know that killing a Comte and his entourage would invite the wrong sort of attention from the powers in the region. At least, d’Artagnan was hoping they did. He was not so secure in his own position, especially considering his reception at the Bishops’, that he could be convinced his death would stir more than a Gallic shrug from the local nobility. But there was no reason for any hired sword to know how tenuous his position was. On the other hand, if they _were_ brigands, then d’Artagnan had just made himself and his friends the worst type of targets. A quick glance back at Athos said he knew just what d’Artagnan was thinking, a nod told d’Artagnan that Athos agreed with his assessment. Small mercies, then.

Aramis too seemed to understand what d’Artagnan intended, and though he looked fit to argue, took up a bodyguard’s position just behind d’Artagnan’s left, leaving Porthos to take the right and Athos to remain behind all three of them, his obvious injury hidden from view.

They waited. The sun beat down, hot and unkind, and d’Artagnan fought to hold himself with the lazy arrogance he had seen in the men of the king’s entourage: lords who were secure in their superiority and in their expectation to be obeyed. If Porthos’ snort was any indication, he wasn’t quite succeeding.

“Don’t try to be aloof,” Athos said, voice low but clear, “it doesn’t suit you. Be direct; be angry at the inconvenience. The brash hostility of a young man will suit you better than the insouciance of an older one.”

D’Artagnan at once relaxed into a more natural pose: his chin was firm, his shoulders taut, the indignation and anger that were never far out of reach for him, were writ clear upon his face. He looked proud and sure and Athos felt a strange sensation unfurl in his chest. It was as if he were watching d’Artagnan grow up before his eyes. The sun on his face left a shadow along his jaw, where one day a beard might sit. His face seemed sharper, older. Athos had not been exaggerating when he had told Treville he believed d’Artagnan had the capacity to be the greatest of them all; it was times like this that told him he had been right. This was not a boy, but a man, born to lead; he could see d’Artagnan stood at the head of an army, men ready to die at his command because they loved him. Perhaps Aramis had seen it too, for he looked unsettled and his horse took a nervous step to the left before Aramis corrected. The approaching horses were slowing now, their riders realising that the party blocking their way had no intention of giving up the road. D’Artagnan sat straight and tall in the saddle; if he was nervous, you could tell nothing from his face.

As the oncoming group closed the final distance, Porthos thought, for a horrible moment, that the group might split to encircle them. But d’Artagnan, whether through luck or design, chose that moment to raise himself slightly in the stirrups and the shifting of his weight prompted his horse to dutifully step forward two paces. It took him out protective range and succeeded in drawing enough attention that the lead rider of the opposing party chose to rein his men to a halt behind him, so that it was, for a moment, a cohort against d’Artagnan.

Looking them over, Porthos could see that, though their horses and weapons were of obvious quality and well cared for, the men themselves had clearly known better times. Their cheeks were a touch too hollow, their eyes beginning to rim with red and their clothes and boots were worn and mended. Their leader pushed forward until his horse was neck-to-neck with d’Artagnan’s, his eyes sweeping over d’Artagnan, taking in his rings and jewellery, flicking to the fleur-de-lis on Porthos’ shoulder and then back to d’Artagnan’s face. The man’s lip curled ever so slightly and his horse snorted softly.

D’Artagnan submitted to the inspection with dignity, merely raising an inquiring eyebrow when it lasted a heartbeat too long. “You seem to be in something of a hurry, gentlemen. Is there anything we can assist with?”

There was an indistinct rumble from the men arrayed across the road and Porthos traded a swift look with Aramis. It was a simple question; there was no reason for it to have raised so many hackles. The men clearly weren’t robbers, or they would have fallen on a smaller party and pressed the advantage of their numbers. These men had stopped, were willing to engage in conversation, but still, it was clear they were not Royal soldiers or even Men at Arms. There was the sense of banked violence among them and the hairs on the back of Aramis’ neck stood on end. Too many of these men had hunger in their eyes; too many eyes were fixed on the gold around d’Artagnan’s fingers and neck; too many were spoiling for a fight. He heard Athos shift softly behind him, and knew the man had lifted his pistol from its holster. Hidden as he was, by the bulk of the other horses, Athos was the only one who would maintain the element of surprise if a fight broke out.

“We travel on business for the Bishop,” the leader growled; his voice was hoarse and the bristles on his chin wagged as he spoke. Behind him, his men shifted with impatience. “We require no assistance. My Lord.” He added grudgingly, with another look at d’Artagnan.

“Can you tell us why there has been no harvest?” d’Artagnan asked, gesturing to the fields. “These crops should have been in weeks ago.”

Again, discontent rolled through the ranks, and the tension on the road rose by several degrees; d’Artagnan did an admiral job of maintaining a look of calm enquiry.

“That’s no concern of yours.” Came the sharp reply. “Beggin’ my lord’s pardon.” Tacked on hastily at the end.

This was interesting, Athos decided. The man would clearly like nothing more than to force d’Artagnan from the road, possibly knock him down, take his horse, his money – even leave all four for dead if he thought he could get away with it – but something about d’Artagnan’s obvious rank was making him cautious. Maybe he had seen the Musketeer stamp on Porthos’ pauldron and assumed that d’Artagnan was a favourite of the king, to be given an escort of Musketeers. To attack any such man would be a death sentence, if one was caught. But here, on an open road, with no one around for miles, no man intent on mischief should have been concerned with capture. Maybe he knew his men would be unequal to the skill of three Musketeers. Maybe not. Whatever his motives and despite an obvious predilection for violence, this man, who had offered no name and asked for none in return, was clearly wary of offending too greatly.

D’Artagnan spent a handful of minutes, pressing for answers, even as each attempt was rebuffed, with prejudice. The boy’s temper was clearly mounting, but at last he was forced to concede that he would win nothing here. D’Artagnan steered his mount to the side of the road and Aramis did the same, making sure that Athos stayed behind him. Porthos took up the rear position.

With a grudging nod in d’Artagnan’s direction, the leader kicked his horse into a trot, leading his men down the road to Tarbes until the company had picked up its original pace.

“We find the next farmhouse.” D’Artagnan snapped, glaring at the retreating forms. “And then I don’t care who we find there. We don’t leave until we have some answers. I want to know what in Heaven’s name is going on here.”

* * *

 

Athos watched, concerned, as d’Artagnan interrogated the young man, who had answered the door at the next farm they had encountered. He had seemed prepared to slam the door in d’Artagnan’s face, but Porthos had braced a hand against the wood and forced the door open. The boy had seemed nearly beside himself in terror, placing himself firmly in front of a small girl, who could only be his sister, and spreading his arms as if this might protect her.

D’Artagnan had taken one look at the display and stormed back outside. It had been left to Aramis to explain their business and to Porthos to help Athos sink onto one of the two rough hewn stools available in the room. This was evidently one of the poorer farms in the region. The house was little more than two rooms linked by an archway, with an attic space above, that most likely served as the children’s sleeping quarters. The girl, recovering from her initial fright, had brought them all some water. She could barely be more than eight and when she smiled, Athos could see she was missing a tooth. She told him her name was Josette.

D’Artagnan had at last been brought back insight, mood black and brows drawn tight. The boy, Luc, had trembled as though he might be struck and Athos had knocked his age down from a slight fifteen to a tall twelve. Their father was dead and their mother, who had tended the farm ever since, had been arrested 11 days ago. They had not seen her since.

“Arrested? On what charge?” D’Artagnan demanded.

Luc shrugged, face miserable. “She had begun to take in the harvest. She was worried that the crops would spoil if they were left any longer.”

“And she was arrested?” Porthos asked, incredulous.

“The Bishop had ordered that none of the crops be collected.” Luc said. “Mama, said we couldn’t wait any longer; someone saw her.”

D’Artagnan suddenly looked very tired and he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“How long does it normally take for the _cachet_ to arrive?”

“It doesn’t arrive.” Luc said, as though d’Artagnan were more than a little stupid. “You must go to Tarbes to petition the Bishop. An audience is held once a season – except in the winter.”

“Just the once?” D’Artagnan confirmed. “One day? What happens if you can’t see the Bishop that day?”

“Then you cannot bring in the harvest.” Luc said, as though this must be obvious. “But,” he lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially, “Monsieur Labbe, who is his chief clerk, will go into the city on three other days beside – so Mama has always brought a _cachet_ home.”

“But not this time.”

Luc shook his head. “The Bishop did not begin to see people until after lunch time, and Mama was turned away before she saw him. Monsieur Labbe did not come this year.”

“How many other farms are affected? Do you know?” Luc did not. “Audet would have mentioned if the _cachet_ was still used in Castelmore.” D’Artagnan said and Athos was unclear whether he was being addressed or if d’Artagnan was merely thinking aloud. “Lupiac hasn’t used it in my lifetime and Castelnavet must be the same if they’ve no liege lord. Does the Bishop know that Labbe doled out _cachet_ without him?” Luc shrugged.

“What exactly _is_ a _cachet_?” Aramis asked. He was half-heartedly engaged with helping Josette braid the hair of her ragdoll, but most of his attention had been given to d’Artagnan and Luc’s conversation; Josette did not seem to mind.

Athos sighed, and attempted to rearrange his leg into a more comfortable position; Aramis watched him with concern. “It’s a – technicality, I suppose.” He looked to d’Artagnan for confirmation, who nodded. “In the strictest terms, all land in France belongs solely to the King, to be used by his grace and with his express permission – the nobility hold the land by his sufferance, not in their own right.” Porthos coughed in disbelief. “As I said,” Athos continued, wryly, “this is ownership in its strictest sense – not a reality. No one questions the King’s divine right to rule, but plenty would question his right to tell them what to do on their own land. The _cachet_ is an extension of that ideal. Theoretically, a farmer who wishes to bring in his harvest must be granted permission from the king – he might well be expected to pay for the privilege. In return he would receive the King’s seal of approval or the _cachet_. A local lord would dispense the _cachet_ to his people in the King’s name. The practice fell out of favour centuries ago, when nobles and monarchs alike realised that the quicker a harvest could be collected, the greater benefit to the economy, and the swifter the taxes rolled into the treasury. There was no need to stall the process with endless paperwork. I’m surprised that the Bishop still keeps to it.”

“Labbe can have been the only thing which made the process viable.” D’Artagnan said. “Look what’s happened without him. Ten to one the Bishop has no notion of the damage he’s doing.”

Athos thought that was rather unlikely, the Bishop seemed like a man who knew the precise value of every single action. That he had continued a tradition like the _cachet_ , spoke less to his ignorance and more to his lust for control.

Josette abandoned her playing to tug meaningfully on her brother’s sleeve. Luc started and then flicked a guilty gaze between his sister, his guests and the cupboard on the wall. Glancing out the window, Porthos saw that the sun had slipped well past its zenith and guessed at what was causing the boy anxiety.

“Time for something to eat.” He said, standing. “I’ll go fetch what we’ve got from the horses.” Luc nearly sagged with relief upon realising that he would not be expected to feed four grown men and set about procuring what plates there were. There were only three and Luc seemed to dither over which of the three men he should provide for, and who would be left empty handed, when d’Artagnan plucked one from his hand, set it before Athos, and motioned to Luc to keep the others for himself and Josette. The poor lad was blushing by the time he sat down again, procuring a jar of some stewed fruit, nearly empty, two withered onions and a rind of stale bread.

Porthos, upon returning, immediately passed the cheese and fruit they had brought with them across to the children. Bread and wine would serve the adults well enough. Luc and his sister nearly fell upon the food, cramming the cheese into their mouths as if it might be snatched away from them at any moment. Josette was groaning by the time she had finished, small hands clutched at her belly and she lolled against her brother’s shoulder. Luc, equally, looked as though he would like to regret his gorging but the remnants of the flavours were still chasing their way across his tongue and he could not quite bring himself to be sorry.

Casting a covert glance around the room, Porthos could see no evidence of any food laid by for the winter. Luc was obviously doing what he could to procure food for his sister, but with the family’s livelihood rotting in the fields and with no coin for the market, it was clear the boy was having to make do with what he could scavenge from the surrounding countryside. If he knew enough to pickle and stew whatever he could lay his hands on, the two might just make it through the winter; but without the coin brought in from this year’s harvest, how would they ever afford to plant in the spring?

D’Artagnan was whispering quietly with Athos, too low for Porthos to hear, and Aramis was having Josette drink some water, to try and settle her stomach. Athos was shaking his head, and d’Artagnan had a hand wrapped around the other man’s wrist. They were clearly arguing about something, but even watching their lips, Porthos couldn’t quite make out the details. At last, Athos sighed, conceding to whatever point d’Artagnan had been making with a nod of the head.

D’Artagnan slipped out the front door, and a moment later they could hear the sound of a knife scratching against wood.

“What’s he doing?” Luc asked, curious. He seemed less concerned about potential damage to his home, than his mother might have been.

“D’Artagnan is concerned that you and your sister will be hard pressed to provide for yourselves, if we leave you here.” Athos said gently, careful of Luc’s young pride. The boy looked ready to protest but Athos held up a hand to forestall him. “He has proposed and I agree, that for the moment, it would be best if you returned with us to Castelmore. D’Artagnan will ensure that your property is under his protection and will cover the cost of any damage that might occur in your absence.”

Luc protested loudly against this arrangement, no doubt feeling keenly that he would have failed his mother if he abandoned their home and stung, that these men did not think him capable of caring for his sister.

“We have chickens.” Was Josette’s contribution to the argument. Luc seized on this defence.

“Yes.” He said. “We cannot leave the chickens, and so we must stay here.”

“How many chickens?” Porthos asked.

Luc was forced to admit that there were merely three. The fourth had been carried off by a fox not long after his mother was arrested.

“Three we can handle.” Porthos said, and dragged Aramis around the back of the cottage to try and pen the chickens and fashion some sort of transport for them.

Luc was still objecting when d’Artagnan re-entered the house and pulled a burlap sack from behind the door. “Fill these with what clothes you need.” He said, handing it to Luc. “And bring me any item you cannot bear to leave behind.”

Josette produced a doll, a little horse made of twine and sticks, and a simple rosary carved from wood. Luc handed over the bag containing his and his sister’s clothes and from the way it was just a touch heavier than expected, d’Artagnan guessed that Luc had hidden his own precious items beneath a shirt. Clothes and treasures were carefully stowed in Athos’ saddlebags and the chickens, in their makeshift cages were strapped to three of the horses. D’Artagnan allowed Luc to complete a final circuit of the house, to make sure everything was in order and, in essence, to give the boy a chance to say goodbye. D’Artagnan had carved the Castelmore crest into the wood of the door and it would serve as enough of a warning for any casual trespassers who might think to intrude. Against more determined vandals he could do nothing, but neither could he, in good conscience, leave two children to starve in the countryside, thirty miles outside his easy influence. For now, Luc and his sister would come to Castelmore. The abbé had mentioned that he had been the ward of foundling children before, and d’Artagnan was more than happy to pay for their upkeep until this business was resolved. He would need to help heal Gascony before these children could return home but in the meantime, they would be fed and warm and the abbé might even given them a little education. The solution was not ideal, but as Athos had been unable to think of anything better, d’Artagnan was convinced that this was the only option open to him.

After assessing that neither child knew how to ride, d’Artagnan carefully lifted Josette into the saddle in front of Porthos, knowing that they would have to stop far more frequently than planned on their route to Castelmore – for there was no way the little girl could sit comfortably across such a large horse for long. Luc rode pillion with d’Artagnan. Athos could not take a passenger with his injured leg and common consensus held that it was best if Aramis was unencumbered, lest the use of a musket be required. As the company moved out along the road, d’Artagnan could feel Luc twisting to take one last look behind him. If the boy’s breathing was slightly uneven and if at times, d’Artagnan felt an elbow hit his kidney’s as Luc wiped his eyes, he pretended not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, at the eleventh hour, the weekly update as promised - not my best efforts I'll confess, but next week's should be better. (I hope)


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